The Automatik Spade

Anatomy of Creation

2010-06-07T22:53:00.000-07:00

This is an unorganized ramble of my day's most significant happening.

After being ejected from the eight hour jigsaw puzzle called work, from which I can't quite find the place for myself, I decided to walk my remaining Strength over to the South Street Seaport and finally visit the Bodies Exhibit.

Nature:

You crazy architect, you genial engineer, you write the music and the lyrics at the same time, nothing overlooked, everything in its right place, slowly improving on the design depending the set background to the script. Dearest Matrix what are you influenced by? What is Nature the nature of?

Micro/Macro.

I'm obsessed with not being satisfied, I can never accept things as they are; I try to find strings, links, networks at times unapparent, a body and an eco-system, a circulatory system and a city's financial infrastructure, tumors and mushrooms...sometimes they connect, sometimes they branch off to a dead end, never reaching the other side.

There's nothing like seeing your internal organs floating with the dissected body like a knights armor removed, to see exactly why you are as your are, it wasn't a mistake, it wasn't done because it looks cool--No. We were designed by practical hands, the way every piece on an iPod is where it needs to be for convenience and function.

The arteries and nerves, their stretching branches over a skull like vines swallowing an abandoned house, giving me the impression of growth, an evolutionary reach that responds to the need of new uses for newly relevant muscles, the way a musician would near the proximity between himself and the instruments he's intending to use, so does the brain need exclusive access to its guitars, keyboards, drums, etc. the organs of its Body Song (Jonny's soundtrack was by the way, what I had on my iPod during the exhibit, because I'm a dork like that).

I wish I could see a single cell become a human, in hyperspeed and certain moments in super slow motion, to watch the exact moment an internal vertebrae is introduced, connecting to a brain, and then nerves extending like a plague throughout highways of veins and arteries, none conflicting, to watch skin cover it all up, and then forgetting about the sub-surface as the exterior can be so beautiful as well, only matched by the care with which this planet ruled it necessary for our insides to be organized in exchange for our continual existence.

Life is but a Dream

2010-05-17T21:09:00.000-07:00

Abandoned Cast Aways:

a letter to you both

Okay, so we've been stranded on this little boat for 3 years now. This I've not to tell you, it isn't or shouldn't reach you as a surprise; you've been right here beside me, the both of you and I beside you just as well, or worse. I should think that if at all surprised, it should be by the length of time being so short not so long. I may not speak for the 3 of us but it has felt like much, much longer. If either of you have truly been here, solidly, then I do confide that I must speak for the 3 of us when I say its felt like far much longer than 3 years. The farthest of "much longer" in fact.

We've each spoken of going our separate ways, taking a chance on our own. By the time you read these words, that is where I'll be, for well or worse, I have swam out further and am now possibly alive just as likely as dead. My morning swim has become a full day, depending by what time the two of you discover this letter. It shouldn't have been hard to find, our Titanic would surely sink if even one of James Cameron's camera's parked on our stern. At the driest corner where the sun upon its proudest of noons would bow down its rays and hold warmly an inviting attention; there; you must've found this page and on the page, over the sketches that documented as well as tormented my thoughts, I have written these words. Boldly and violently etched into the 8" x 11" manilla sheet.

I am gone. I have left. I wish you both the best but I am gone and I shall not return. I am selfish and I apologize if the consequence of my action hurts or harms either of you whom I do truly care for but I refuse to die out here. Out at sea, in the middle of the ocean. Stranded on a row boat that sips in water through the three holes under our feet. 3 years and we've become comfortable with transforming the situation into a unique circumstance and adapting ourselves as if we could go on as this for 3 more years, or whatever it takes before we either die or are rescued.

I realize I am leaving you both with more work, we are three but without so much as 1/3, the labour of each remaining person increases but twice. I hope my departure awakens in you both, a sense of alarm, a sense of time and necessity. I hope that my example strengthens your courage, provides a battery for your will, gasoline for your self-preservation and promotes your urgency to act now. This instant, as you're reading...I hope that your minds are made up regardless of your feelings towards me, for abandoning you both, for writing this letter and having the neural gall to claim its an action executed in love; despite your immediate impression of me this instant, I do wish you both, do urge you both to please leave this boat. Lets part ways and we'll be better off alone, I am sure of it. If only one of you leaves, please do your best to convince the last person not to remain alone, not to attempt to keep the boat on their own. You'll surely sink, the 3 holes are much stronger and consistent than any one of us. If you die even an inch further away from where we've been stranded for 3 years, then you have made progress. You have been as consistent as the holes that mean to drown you.

Goodbye, so long.

We'll meet on dry land,

Our End.

Curious About Kim Novak

2010-05-16T20:19:00.000-07:00

Somehow Calm as She Walks Off Stage

Kim Novak is such a peculiar actor, its probably because she's not a good actor but the characters she's played are all intriguing in a hollow way. She always comes across as cold and empty. Even so, I always feel interested enough to romantically believe that there's more there than meets the eye; that the blank personality is only the surface to a submerged and highly exclusive truth that's too sacred to herself to reveal.

Novak never seems convinced of herself, almost a lack of confidence that refuses to admit she's a beautiful star. The women she's played appear to not understand why they are desired. Vertigo, Strangers When We Meet, The Man with the Golden Arm, and Picnic are the four films I've seen her in so far. In each film, we find a woman, more or less, who is a simple girl set upon an overwhelming circumstance. When the drama swelters into a scene and she has to perhaps step out of a comfort zone, its noticeable and I sense as if it taxes her a bit. She's an actor who doesn't like to expose herself into any role. Which is fine but she also doesn't like to expose the characters into her roles. In fact, she pulls the characters into herself; almost hides and keeps them securely kept away from the surface, where no one can harm them.

Regardless of what I've said above its only the opinion of a voice that has not enough material with which to fully or accurately judge his subject. So I am forming a list of Kim Novak films to watch that I've not seen. Hopefully, the intention is to gain a new perspective on a performer whom I already consider interesting.

Graphic Tee Party

2010-05-16T10:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I walked around LES for a bit, I remembered the Obey Pop-up Store that had temporarily parked on Orchard. I hadn't visited yet and apparently today was a book release party for some artist; Name Tagging was the book's title. On my way to Orchard, I found an opening reception on the corner of Bowery and Stantion. It seemed like a hole in the wall invaded by multiple canvasses and appreciators of said canvasses, along with variable scenesters and the absence of music. I walked in and immediately hated what I saw. Smeared paint of light colors on canvas with these weird odd shaped circles that seemed stuck on and painted over; each piece had one of these circles, I soon noticed. Then I realized what the circles were, after which I found two pieces that were cool.

This was one:

Sitting the Cook at the Dinner Table

The artist had taken t-shirts and stretched them over each canvas and painted over the fabric of the shirts. Some of the pieces utilized screen-printing which was like saying if so-many artists use a t-shirt design technique on canvas, why not bring the t-shirt itself in on it? After all, t-shirts love art too.

The weird circles were actually the head-holes of the t-shirts. And while I felt some of the screen-printed pieces were interesting or just nice to look at, there were far more pieces that I didn't like, that just seemed like I was expected to have been impressed solely on the fact that they were painted on a t-shirt stretched over canvas. But I'm sure other people were into it and they probably hated the pieces I liked, but whatever...thats art. I didn't want to know the artist's name, I didn't pick-up the info-sheet by the make-shift gallery's entrance, nor did I start any engaging conversation to see what anyone else thought about any of it. I kept my headphones on and Synchronicity was convincing me I want to have an affair with an older, married woman.

Dark Knight Returns!

2010-05-15T18:47:00.000-07:00

Harry Brown - Anyone else want to see Alfie Dark Knight the shit outta street toughs without a bloody cape and cowl! Its great to see the star of such action films as Get Carter and The Italian Job reprise his no nonsense badass brit grit. The main difference is that now that Michael Caine is older, he's even scarier...Old people with weapons in general are just a perfect example of Frightening. If anyone knows what a spit in the face life can be, its surely our elderly inevitables, luckily memory fades for some, but the more acute of the lot truly can impress alarm if added to some form of violent-expressive relief. I remember a few years back my grandma wanted to take out the baseball bat on some kids who accidentally wet our apartment window when they were playing outside with a water hose. I had to hold her back.

I Know the Hooker's Real Name

2010-05-07T15:02:00.000-07:00

The Girlfriend Experience - (2009) Directed by Steven Soderbergh

Starring Sasha Grey, Chris Santos, Philip Eytan

This is a really good story and a very interesting film to watch. Prostitutes have always interested me, prostitution is one of the oldest professions, is there any doubt as to why?

Some things to note when you watch this film is; there aren't any sex scenes, which is great because even though the protagonist is a prostitute the film is not at all about sex. The editing makes for a sort of smorgasbord of scenes that seem to keep you off balance but eventually you start to gain along with Soderbergh's rhythm. The story takes place nearing the 2008 presidential election. All throughout the background of the drama we find financial unrest and all the insecurities that festered most Americans during that time. Another thing I found pretty cool was the seemingly purposeful paralleling of the escort and the personal trainer. Two very physical jobs, that depend on some sort of trust, ego-peppering and an unescapable superficiality towards the client who on some level knows that the attention is bought, is a service, and not an unconditional relationship.

God Won't Show, He Sent a Poet Instead!

2010-05-07T14:41:00.000-07:00

So I buy a Bible...you know a friend of mine has an idea, some sort of photo shoot, involving me and a Bible--I don't ask questions. I buy the Bible on my lunch break, I took a really long time deciding between cover colors, a black pleather or a mahogany pleather; "what would god choose?" I think to myself and go with the black. Now I feel a bit strange as I purchase this $6.99 Bible, King James' Version. As I walk out of Shakespeare and Co. onto Broadway, this was just the preview, this was when the Bible still had the plastic wrap, the condom if you will. We all know God with a condom is no God. After work I strip the cover from out its protection and take down Lafayette with one hand in my pocket and the other swinging the Bible. Something strange occurred after a few moments.

Before I get into it, I should now mention that I looked like a mormon, in dark gray viscose pants with a striped collared tucked in and covered by a light, almost heather gray v-neck. Its breezy enough that I can get away with my gray skully, not because of its color but because others tend to take too personal another person's apparel.

Anyway, as I'm crossing Astor, northern bound to 14 St, I suddenly become reached, held, proposed by this overwhelming sensation. Its almost as if the Bible beside me with the words, "Holy Bible" thick and gold on the pleather cover, were a weapon not a book. A pistol, some sort of side arm, phallic and making up for some need within me to extend my manhood through the power of a weapon. I feel as if I could control, fear, excite people, shape their minds with whatever I feel they should interpret as relevant. For whatever reason, as I walked up Lafayette, I felt a legacy of murder, conquest, violence, and prejudice surge through my palm and like a bribe, slipping in, I savored the imagined taste of taking apart a human brain and reconstructing the pieces as I saw fit. This was strange, perhaps even uncomfortable but not frightening. Not frightening in the slightest bit.

May We?

2010-05-05T10:21:00.000-07:00

My Monthly Aresian Horoscope

March 21 - April 19

Aries is about Orange and Apple Juice. Its about making a fool of yourself but then dusting the dirt off and stepping right into your natural tempo. Its an older gentleman saying you have a "walk" and remarking that no one can talk to you while you walk 'cause you seem so far away even if you were standing right next to the person. Spring is the season that seasons you, adds flavor and compliments your taste to create an original note on the palette. Spring is one long Valentines Day, four months of a truly New Year. March or April should be the first month of the year, other countries know the deal, a year should begin with Spring not the climax of Winter. Today will be Wednesday, day of Mercury, messengers, Miercoles, words exchanged, hints noted.

Guns! Razors! Knives! (fuckwitme)!

2010-05-05T09:11:00.000-07:00

Diamond Eyes is red...soaking wet.

Its far more livelier than Saturday Night Wrist, with a more straightforward approach to being loud and seemingly less complex. The synths are less apparent with the main focus on guitars, drums, and vocals. Even the lyrics, though as beautiful as ever have become more frank than we're accustomed to hearing from frontman, Chino Moreno. However, the most charismatic feature of Diamond Eyes is attitude. This album doesn't walk it gambols across, head nodding and lips licked provocatively, it taunts and teases, titillates and even torments the listeners who feel like more as the songs creep across their skulls.

From the heavy drive structure of Rocket Skates to the swing bounce of You've Seen the Butcher, to the way Chino's voice rides the beat on Risk and Prince; there is definitely a lot of new elements indigenous to this album that the band has introduced to their repertoire. There is also the noticeable absence of electronic drum programming, almost a tradition since White Pony's Teenager and later followed by Lucky You and Pink Cellphone. Diamond Eyes takes it back to Around the Fur, which was the last album to contain a title track.

The lyrics seem to be about intimacy, trust, and truth, subsurface appearances and the nakedness of one's true identity. Though, as a result the songs sound like they're about sex, a subject that is well adept to teach all of the aforementioned ideas. This is just my impression of the words. I mentioned above that Chino is at his most frank, well thats only in comparison to his other albums; he no doubt still retains that elusiveness that so trademarks his words.

While we're talking opinions, Rocket Skates is the penultimate song of this album. Abe's drumming and Chino's guitar are having so much fun and yet the song is deadly and seems like it might fly out of control at any point. Delgado's sine waves are like background warnings, while the lyrics are sweet and proud, threatening and flirtatious. You don't know whether you want to fight or fuck when you hear it.

Scams, Plots, and Everything

2010-05-04T19:27:00.000-07:00

Presumed Innocent - (1990) Directed by Alan J. Pakula

Starring Harrison Ford, Brian Dennehy, Raul Julia, Bonnie Bedelia

Every Time I Die - She's My Rushmore

Cut your break lines, brake your headlights

and waited for you at the stop sign.

Disconnected iron lungs, insurance fires,

our smothered young.

Always the first one on the scene.

A pyromantic midsummer night's dream

Thank you lord:

1) for this oil slick.

2) for her car wreck.

3) for I'm lovesick.

Heaven sent us a hero, but Hell tried to his resolve.

And when you thought we were done for. I pulled through.

While you rested your eyes in the driver seat,

I sat and watched you.

Always the first one on the scene.

A pyromantic midsummer night's dream

Trust me.

We'll wait for it, pray for it,

step on the brakes till we're over it, under it,

screaming like bombs for it.

Oh dear me, I've done it again.

Thank you lord:

4) for the loaded gun.

5) for the bad aim.

6) for I'm lonesome.

God is smiling down on us,

he shines his grace on everyone.

(p.s. - The greatest lovers

were murderers first.)

Plenty - (1985) Directed by Fred Schepisi

Starring Meryl Streep, Charles Dance, Tracey Ullman

John Gielgud, Sting, Ian McKellen, Sam Neill

Deftones - Feiticeira

Buckled!

I'm drunk

But I'm on my knees

The police stopped chasing

I'm her...new...cool...meat

She pops the trunk

And she removes me

The machines take pictures of us

And my jaw and my teeth hurt

I'm choking from gnawing on the ball...

And just before I come to

Move to the back of the car

She made me touch the machine

New Murderer...

Fuck!

First untie me

Untie me for now

You said you would right

And you were right

The Fortune Cookie - (1966) Directed by Billy Wilder

Starring Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau, Ron Rich

The White Stripes - The Nurse

The Nurse should not be the one who puts salt in your wounds

But its always with trust that the poison is fed with a spoon

When you're helpless with no one to turn to alone in your room

You would swear that the one who would care for you never would leave

She promised and said, "you will always be safe here with me"

But promises open the door to be broken to me

You Feel Cold

2010-04-29T19:24:00.001-07:00

John and Mary - (1969) Directed by Peter Yates

Starring Dustin Hoffman and Mia Farrow

As a month passes by; one that began with a birthday and a girlfriend has ended with a developing beard and a heart that isn't as broken as it is loosened, I have gone through a flash flood of thoughts. Merciless thoughts, un-silenced thoughts, restless, questioning, oppressing thoughts. Endlessly haunting, staring at a reflection that stares at you as if you were the one in the mirror, displaced, unsure, identity as thin as your patience, as thin as your nerve endings and what suddenly makes them spark and sizzle like cooking oil.

As a month passes by and Scott Walker sings, and Beach House fits me like a glove, and everything is a living code of itself. And instead of seeing things as they are, I only see the code. I spend my days deciphering, cross-referencing, running the answers in my head, vividly observing as they, like a subtle metamorphosis, become questions. The period stretching into a line and curling into a question mark as a new period parks underneath it.

What good does a film like John and Mary to this tenuous condition? The impressions absorbed through this ripe fidelity towards romantic melancholy. Almost like a mirror played as moving pictures, with a story that stands there like a body, showing you yourself. But its one of those funhouse mirrors, it has to be--Because everything looks slightly nicer and works out better, its memory the way a memory is usually kept, with bias. If its a bad memory, you focus on the bad; if the opposite then the opposite. John and Mary took all the good and made me a body song. Something to look at and hum along because I don't know the words but the melody is so familiar.

The Joke on Prince Street

2010-04-29T15:28:00.000-07:00

Chronicles of a Fuck-up

I Think an Unwritten Smiths' Song Just Happened to Me

So I'm walking down Prince Street on my lunch break and this girl who's too attractive to smile at me, smiles at me. I smile back very surprised. But then again, she smiled with her mouth open and a nod, so really...an attractive girl on Prince Street laughed at me. I have no idea why. She had some funny looking dog and shades. She walked normal so I couldn't see anything that she or her dog may be doing that she'd laugh at when being noticed by another person in the act. Maybe I gave her dog a funny look, I won't rule that out. I did take a small hop-step from the sidewalk to the street, which I didn't think resembled a misstep or trip. Maybe she was laughing at that. Maybe she was just a crazy person. Typical. Maybe I knew her and just didn't recognize her and she was delivering one of those, funny-running-into-you-here-of all-places sort of laugh greets. Or maybe its the most obvious, me walking down Prince Street on my lunch break is very quite a laughing matter. Comedy.

If You See Something Say Something

2010-04-28T21:37:00.000-07:00

Doctor Zhivago - (1963) Directed by David Lean

Starring Omar Sharif, Julie Christie, Geraldine Chaplin

Rod Steiger

I saw Doctor Zhivago today. On a big screen, digitally restored and for the first time, viewed at the Tribeca Film Festival. Should I talk about it? Tell you about how great the story was, or spin sentence after sentence about David Lean and all the beautiful shots he gives you. Omar Sharif or Julie Christie? Better yet, Tom Courtenay and Rod Steiger?

I'm not going to talk about it. "Please watch Doctor Zhivago if you get the chance", is all I'll say.

I, instead, am going to tell you about the episode I witnessed today just before entering the Clearview Cinema. As I cued along with others, an older gentleman spoke to me and others about films, music, history, many subjects, each in which he held some sort of worthy insight to share. He wasn't really bothering anyone. He made silly jokes and teased some of the Cinema staff. Whenever one of these ushers in bright yellow windbreaker TFF jackets and sunglasses would approach he'd ask if they were bringing him his ticket. It was a harmless joke and I couldn't imagine that it got to any of their nerves. As the line grew, I'd say about after maybe a good 15 people cued, the older man's younger wife showed up. He, by the way, was the first person on line; and when she showed up, everyone noticed. She was cool too, both really nice, friendly people. He told me about an film essay he has been working on for 2 weeks now, he told me about Hedy Lamarr and how she pretty much invented the technology responsible for the cellphone and internet with any due credit. Seriously. If you heard the story yourself it would not sound as crazy as it does when I write it.

Oh, I think I smell a rat!

It appeared that someone on line did not agree with his wife showing up late and taking a spot in the front. "It wasn't fair." Anonymously, word was slipped into one of the usher's ears and they approached the older man. "Its been brought to our attention that in all fairness, she (his wife) should go to the back of the line since its ticket per body, first come - first serve." Paraphrase, whatever...They split up the old man and his younger wife, the first 10 people are escorted to the ticket vendor, I'm glad to be moving as I had been shaking from a chill that echoed through me. He buys his ticket then explains his case to the vendor. I smile inside and think to myself he's a slick bastard, smooth operator because he had complied without much of complaint when the ushers linearly divorced him from his lady. He knew who to talk to. The vendor was ready to sell him the ticket or at least have one of the managers hear his story. I paid my tickets and then three people after me handed the vendor their ticket vouchers. The three people behind me were together and they were speaking with the old man earlier, everything seemed cool. But as we all headed towards the Cinemas entrance we passed on of the ushers who spoke with the old man earlier. One of the three people behind says to the usher, "hey, the old man is trying to game the box office." To this, the usher says, "good call," as he directs his energy on heading towards the box office where the old man probably was about to get his wife a ticket.

You ratted me out!

What business is it of yours if he gets his wife a ticket? Really, you ratted out another person, for what? What did it get you, doing "right", you got your ticket, what was the point in interfering? I don't get it.

A Marked Man

2010-04-28T21:27:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what it is about Richard Widmark that draws me into any role he's playing. He's got just as much intensity as Kirk Douglas yet it doesn't come across as it does for Douglas as Desperate Mania (which I love about Douglas). His voice, as distinct as Henry Fonda or John Wayne, as well as the grit of Charlton Heston. Widmark is just great to watch! My first film with Widmark was Judgement at Nuremberg, though at the time I didn't know who he was nor Burt Lancaster. Little did I expect that both names would soon become friendly assurances on my film viewing selections. Here are my latest Widmarks...

The Cobweb - (1955) Directed by Vincente Minnelli

Starring Richard Widmark, Lauren Bacall, Charles Boyer

I really enjoyed the characters in this film and felt the weaving of the story to be almost a thriller in that the audience held a vital piece of information or understanding that most of the characters didn't. The plot was thick and the performances solid, Gloria Grahame and John Kerr in secondary, however essential roles provided just as much punch as Widmark and Lillian Gish, even the minor characters such as Sue and Mr. Capp were very well-rounded. Minnelli sure knows how to deliver a widescreen film.

I sure hope the day arrives when I could see his films on a large screen.

Don't Bother to Knock - (1952) Directed by Roy Ward Baker

Starring Richard Widmark, Marilyn Monroe, Anne Bancroft

Marilyn Monroe as a crazy woman, and surprisingly she's pretty effective as such. Maybe its not surprising. I myself was surprised, I was just about ready to never give a chance, ever. Perhaps this role meant something to her, perhaps she was under some pills and that did the trick, or maybe she just tried so hard to be bad in this role that it worked against her and the result was a sad character that one could help feel sympathy for.

This film is full of surprises; in its content, I found it too be very adult, the situations were mature and some of the violence perhaps, ahead of its time. Honestly, in one scene I cringed when a character received a blow to the head from an angrily desperate Monroe.

All Sorts of Intimate Acts, Oral and Whatnot

2010-04-26T18:54:00.000-07:00

The Firm - (1993) Directed by Sydney Pollack

Starring Tom Cruise, Jeanne Tripplehorn, Gene Hackman

I don't know if it was John Grisham, David Rabe, Sydney Pollack, or Tom Cruise himself that produced such a great performance out of Mitch McDeere. I have said many a word against Dr. Scientology but he really packed all his pros into this role without any of the cons that would later surface in many of the characters he plays. It must be that Tom Cruise became too used and we started to see that he was doing sort of the same thing in most of his films and we got bored. But today I say this, "let Tom be Tom, you be yourself, and I'll do likewise." After that, wherever we land is our business and no one else's concern.

The soundtrack to this film won a well deserved Oscar, the keys and chords worked on my nerves like a spider on a web, and what a tangled web we weave...There's something about the music when combined with the suits and the very straightforward way of presenting the story that seems typically 1990s, however I am not sure if this is one of the films that indeed set the glossary to that vocabulary. If nothing else, its definitely the deal sealer, the closer of the lid that solidifies Wilfred Brimley as the ultimate badass with a handle bar mustache. That was until this episode of Seinfeld air:

I Want to See the Big Picture, I Do!

2010-04-26T16:26:00.000-07:00

THE SET-UP:

As many of you know, we are amidst The Tribeca Film Festival until sometime next week. Act accordingly! I have to admit that I don't really care. As much as I love films; as much time as I spend juggling TCM and Netflix; as much as I'm always tempted to feed my paycheck to Amazon.com's open mouth in exchange for some classics-- I can't seem to be moved by any film festival really. Actually, I wish I could be over on the pacific, at the 1st ever TCM film festival, but even then I'm sure its a load of hype and ridiculous packages for limited unlimited access.

However, my Grouch tendencies aside, I am excited about one part of the Tribeca Film Festival which sort of ties in TCM. On Wednesday, 28-April/21010 the Clearview Cinema on Chelsea will be showing David Lean's epic film adaptation of Boris Pasternak's epic novel, Doctor Zhivago. Viewing this film, that carries with it a magnanimous reputation of being a masterpiece achievement in cinema; viewing this film which, mind you, I've never seen on a big screen or any screen for that matter; viewing this film for the first time in this manner makes me feel...I don't know what exactly but I feel...everything, at the same time, I feel everything!

The Inevitable Let Down:

I just hope its not a rip-off. I mean, its cool that they're showing Doctor Zhivago, granted I'd appreciate it in some way. But I want a big screen, David Lean's wide frame will find no justice or peace in some cozy little theatre with a chalk board screen. No offense to IFC or Sunshine Cinemas, and much love for showing older films but the rooms they're shown in gives one the impression of sitting in a weird living room with strangers watching a big TV set.

I remember when I saw There Will Be Blood at BAM. That was special. I knew something good was happening as this larger than life character was presented in the center of this beautiful theatre. most films don't feel like that. Like I said, a room with strangers watching a large TV. I'd love to see Lawrence of Arabia at Kips Bay, or Once Upon a Time in the West at the AMC in Times Square, both on the biggest screen the respective theatre has to offer.

One classic film a month, every theatre in NYC, every last week of the month in just one theatre...it doesn't even have to be all day, maybe just one or two showings per day...on the biggest screen. Really, New York City? It a little embarrassing that I have to ask for this.

All I Need is an Umbrella called Understanding

2010-04-24T08:13:00.000-07:00

I will never complain about the rain again. The craziest part of this video or film is that it takes place here on earth, its the small world that owns a far larger planet than we do. Imagine cannonballs of rain descending from the sky on us, its so violent and beautiful and frightening, it kills just as much as it feeds and helps create. I love how this planet knows what its doing. The Greeks had Gaia, among others and she was the Earth, the kind of woman Chino from The Deftones writes about.

The thought that a quick rain can fall and at most only drench my clothes, but in a smaller context leave a similar scene to the one in this video gives me a strange sense of perspective. It makes me think of humanity's worst, crimes, wars, plagues, famine, all the things we see as ultimate states of discomfort. All these things are as micro to the milky way as rain onto the small world of bugs is to us. The Macrocosm though never directly affected by the Microcosm, is of the same design and what happens on one has its corresponding happening on the other. "On Earth as it is in Heaven" Forget religion, this line always has been an reference to a ratio for me, you might as well be saying "on 2 as it is in 4", or "on 4 as it is in 16". What happens on Earth has its rationally scaled equivalent happening in the Universe.

The Buzz

2010-04-20T15:56:00.000-07:00

Let the Honey Be Your Guide

I love Honey Nut Cheerios. I mean that the way a man would love a woman enough to stand before friends, relatives, and strangers and say "I do." Possibly beyond, I love Honey Nut Cheerios to the point that its perverse. Thats right, loving a cereal as one would a woman isn't perverse enough. I could have sex in a tub full of milk and buckets of Honey Nut Cheerios falling over us like water from the shower-head. I would buy an edible blow-up doll if it was made from Honey Nut Cheerio grain. I don't even want to get into how much I love honey, that's another matter completely.

Its a pretty good cereal and I've been faithful since I was a child to these sandy rings that come alive in milk, soak up and vibrantly excite any breakfast with that first dripping spoonful. And how can you go wrong with Honey and Nuts? Its a pretty good cereal!

I don't know about that bee...the lovable honey bee with that stupid face and cheery attitude...smiling and talking. I can't remember a time when I saw a real bee and my first thought wasn't to slap the air or move out of the way; compromising my cool to whoever happens to see from a distance a grown man twisting and jerking like an apoplectic idiot. Bees don't smile and they certainly don't look like BuzzBee. And furthermore, they would never pour honey over cereal. Because Bees make honey only for themselves. BuzzBee, in real life, would not be as cooperative as the cereal box implies about sharing his/her Honey.

Bee aside, Honey Nut Cheerios is awesome. What about squirrels? Honey and bees, squirrels and nuts; I think Honey Nut Cheerios should have dual mascots. The box should show a bee on one corner making Honey, a squirrel on the opposite corner gathering nuts and then John D. Rockefeller in-between stealing from both!

I love Honey Nut Cheerios!

Remember Honey I Shrunk the Kids? Chilling on a Cheerio Lifesaver, if I were stranded out in a milk sea on a Honey Nut Cheerio, I'd drown but I'd be one full, satisfied corpse.

Confessions of a Crap Artist: I Just Wanna Say...

2010-04-18T21:47:00.000-07:00

I try and try to fit all my thoughts into words. I try to make speech a conduit to brain, a channel from where one is able to express itself through the other. I don't know how to talk out loud...I stop sentences short...I trail off and change topics awkwardly and...its all bullshit anyway. I can't make sense of how anyone can do it...I premeditate the words and it sounds so good, so exact and confident...it makes sense and I'm definitely in control but then its like the words aren't really words; like liquid and solid, the same but not the same. Better yet gas and solid. My thoughts are like some gas that floats and lightly obscures but one could walk through...words on my tongue are solid blocks with weight, height and mass, texture and density. You can't walk through it, you can't make it float and reshape it like clouds at the slight inspiration of wind, once its spoken a word is a word. A thing jumping out of you and you can't have it back...but you can add more words to direct a thought. I'm no good at directing spoken words. Maybe on paper or text/edit when the words are not quite solid, writing is the liquid phase of communicative matter.

Film Logue

2010-04-08T20:04:00.000-07:00

A Little Bit of Plague Makes the People Come Together

Panic in the Streets - (1950) Directed by Elia Kazan

Starring Richard Widmark, Paul Douglas, Barbara Bel Geddes

2 or 3 years back I read The Plague by Albert Camus and I've been meaning to read it again. There is something about Plague that fascinates me, any contagious disease in fact, if it groups a number of people together its everything short of uninteresting to observe human solidarity.

Panic in the Streets is a story that follows a thinning clock, a race against time, as the threat of an epidemic deepens in a New Orleans town when a man with pneumonic plague is murdered and his infected attackers unknown. Richard Widmark and Paul Douglas play the unlikely pair of doctor and policeman in charge of finding the contaminated murderers. The doctor, Lt. Cmdr. Clinton Reed M.D. just as Dr. Bernard Rieux in The Plague or even Dr. Steven Monks in Val Guest's 1963 plague film, 80,000 suspects; all dealt with the tremendous strain of stress, every life that pass, passed through their hands and every action they took was met with immediate response. Under such restraint of time during plague, one must act fast, truthfully, and with little or no regard for ego. I guess this is why plague stories interest me. Only when the threat of death is made a real solid fact, only when it looms about not as a spontaneous thief but as an invited guest who makes you uncomfortable nonetheless, only then do we shed the material layers of life. It brings out of people, that which they are at their essential make up. Heroes can become cowards, beggars can ascend to aristocracy; plague has no class division. During a plague, everyone is in the same position, death may come and carry anyone away. This is true even without plague, Death most certainly can never be called prejudice or predictable but without such an experience like plague, Death can be ignored, a person may distract their attention to other things. And as I would agree a preoccupied obsession with Death isn't healthy nor is the fear of Death that stunts one's experience of life. Plague sheds our costumes and what we are becomes known to us and others.

I'm surprised I haven't heard about Panic in the Streets before. Perhaps because its not based on a Tennessee Williams play and it doesn't star Brando, he isn't in it at all, actually. There are some great performances nonetheless, Richard Widmark is intense and practically blew a few capillaries as Clint Reed and then there's Jack Palance (then billed Walter Jack Palance) as Blackie, the lead assailant who's unknowingly carrier to the pneumonic lung candy that's got the city officials all hot and bothered. Barbara Bel Geddes plays Clinton Reed's wife, Nancy. It took me a moment to realize she played Midge Wood, Jimmy Stewart's friend in Vertigo, I'm very fond of her. I wonder if she was part of Kazan's method class? I'd like to see more of her.

Film Logue

2010-04-04T12:14:00.000-07:00

Tengoku to Jigoku "High and Low" - (1963) Directed by Akira Kurosawa

Starring Toshiro Mifune, Tatsuya Makadai, Kyoko Kagawa,

Tatsuya Mihashi

Location, Location

This crime-action suspense film plays against type from its opening scene right down to the literal closing. A wealthy businessman in the shoe making industry faces conflict when he realizes that the kidnapper who kidnapped his song has made a mistake. The kidnapper, has in fact abducted the child of his driver. Kingo Gondo must now decide if he should pay the ransom as he most certainly would've when he believed it was his own son who was taken.

Most of the action and investigation happens off screen, us, the viewers are then briefed by report updates or information exchanged between characters. Similarly some of the more dramatic dialogue and exchange of words in the first half happen behind a group of people who are not involved in the argument. A living room full of embarrassed detectives stand forefront, awkwardly lowering their heads, as behind them Mr. and Mrs. Gondo argue about whether to pay the ransom or not.

Akira Kurosawa's plot to High and Low is full of moments like the aforementioned. And even when we see the kidnapper he doesn't speak until the final scenes. In fact, unlike most action films involving a kidnapping, there is no suspense directly involving the kidnapper himself. Instead, the suspense lies in the thrill of the hunt and tracking down the identity of the kidnapper, Ginjiro Takeuchi.

If I had more time today I would watch both Heat and The Dark Knight. A similar sense of intense search and a long postponed meeting between hero and villain is found in all three of these films. High and Low or Tengoku to Jigoku is also location rich, as the name implies from High to Low, we get a sense of a city from its wealthiest to its vulnerably dependent poor.

Film Logue

2010-03-27T09:51:00.000-07:00

Greenberg - (2010) Directed by Noah Baumbach

Starring Ben Stiller, Greta Gerwig, Rhys Ifans, Jennifer Jason Leigh

Noah Baumbach writes and directs this story about a middle-aging man who wants to do "nothing" for a while. Roger Greenberg played by Stiller is the kind of character, that when you watch as a viewer you cringe and wish you could reach out and hold his mouth, so as to avoid the disaster of awkward embarrassment when he speaks. However, a character like that might not feel embarrassed, you'd feel it for him. Which is all the more reason why you'd want to look out for him.

The Harder They Fall - (1956) Directed by Mark Robson

Starring Humphrey Bogart, Rod Steiger, Jan Sterling, Mike Lane

Such a marvel to watch, especially quick talking charismatic Rod Steiger as notorious boxing promoter, Nick Benko. I was surprised to find under Rod Steiger's achievements, an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in On the Waterfront. Sure, he wasn't unqualified for the award but Nick Benko was robbed of the recognition that character truly deserved.

Film Logue

2010-03-23T22:19:00.000-07:00

Kramer vs. Kramer - (1979) Directed by Robert Benton

Starring Dustin Hoffman, Meryl Streep, Jane Alexander

and Justin Henry

I want to see more Meryl Streep. Ever since I saw Doubt last year, I've been intrigued by her amazing talent as an actor. Sophie's Choice only confirmed my fascination.

Kramer vs. Kramer is a really touching movie. I never thought I would sit and watch a film about a single dad, dealing with a wife who walked out on him and his son. Just recently, on TCM I heard a brief segment where Robert Benton mentioned that someone suggested to him that he cannot make Mrs. Kramer a villain. Benton took the advise and from then on knew how to approach the story. I kept this in mind as I watched the film. Its true, and because Joanna Kramer wasn't a villain, because she was a human being; a person with choices and actions, none of which can be summed up and packaged into one neat explanation or judgement. Because I could see substance in such a character's circumstantial layering, I sat and watched this 1979 drama. I can remember this film being shown on channel 11 as far back as I can remember; when I was old enough to be Billy Kramer's age but dismissed it repeatedly then, as it wasn't an action movie.

Long Day's Journey into Night - (1962) Directed by Sidney Lumet

Starring Katharine Hepburn, Ralph Richardson, Jason Robards,

Dean Stockwell

One thing I'll say about this excellent story is that James Tyrone played brilliantly by Ralph Richardson made me laugh. It wasn't a disrespectful, unintentionally funny response to his character. No. I believe that character is suppose to be funny. A man who takes himself far too seriously, Edmund and Jamie are always laughing at him and even in the first scene Mary states that her husband is always at the end of some joke or another.

This provided for me a genuine lock for the story. It was key to feeling the story become all the more real. It reminds me of fights and/or lectures from my parents; laughter is always a present element to these otherwise serious speeches. More so, laughter is always inspired when a person is trying to explain their true self (the person they imagine they are) against the image of who they are seen as. This story was very much about everyone trying to explain who they are. All except Edmund, who seems to be either too young to know or care, both on romantic, poetic terms.

Indirect Deposit

2010-03-19T14:35:00.000-07:00

I'm going to let you folks in on a well guarded secret no one cares about.

It's not easy being me.

I repeat, its not easy being me. In fact, even I at times have difficulty managing such a show. Take for instance today, my first payday at the new job. Here, I must admit that the actual payday was Wednesday but no one bothered to tell me. This entire post would be about what I've blown my first paycheck on if that sweet slice of information were disclosed to me earlier enough to be convenient. Anyhow, I thought today was payday and when I got to work and asked my co-worker, East Euro T (real name withheld) about who I was to see concerning my check, he mumbled through whatever he was eating at the time. After a clearing and an extra moment for me to climb over his accent I realized he said, "We got paid Wednesday." He showed me who to ask and repeated how bi-weekly paydays function. I politely nodded and after receiving my check became excited about cashing it.

Its been so long, the last 2 1/2 months were financially awful. I was eager to get to a check cash place and buy a metrocard, some lunch, and walk around some more with that paranoid feeling that someone's going to rob me. I hadn't felt that last one in years, I haven't cashed a check since 2005. The plan was to avoid the bank and the account currently blooming in overdraft. At lunch time, however, I figure let me walk into the bank and see what the damage has been, I make it a point to ignore my account when its in poor shape.

"We all are, act accordingly..."

At the bank I discover my account is -$192. Not bad, I thought to myself, so then I got to further thinking. The wheels in my head were turning despite LeFou's warning of such a dangerous pass time. It shouldn't be too bad if I deposit the check here after all. I'd be saving a walk and a lot of bulky paranoia. I walk in.

I walk out, account with its belly full you would think.

But not quite. No, not at all so very quite. If I'm to follow through with the dining analogy, it was as if the food was prepared and served but the account was not to have a single bite until tomorrow...Tomorrow? But I just deposited the check...Look! Its right there, the remainder is right there, under the overdraft that appears to be the only thing available. Do I really have to wait a day? I spent the last 10 minutes before leaving my apartment this morning, combing my shelves for $2.25 in quarters; to pay for the single ride to get to work.

Maybe it just takes some hours to go through...Lets ask Google...Not good. Why? Are you serious? I have to wait a day? Fuck that I won't except it, I'll just go back after work and ask somebody, what the fuck does a search engine know anyway? A search engine doesn't even have a posable thumb...Its not even a real engine, how the hell did I expect it could motor the comprehension necessary to understand this ordeal?!

There was this one time...I was younger...I thought it'd be cool to pretend I'm drunk. I'd walk around carrying a drowsy disposition, slurring words and walks, laughing through lips and half shut eyelids. I put on the act for a few minutes when Snap! I caught a fish! My "friend" Spaceman bought into it, at least he was willing to entertain the notion. I was working for my Oscar nomination that night. Immersed into character, I let Spaceman take me to the neighboring block. Bad idea...but whoa was I ever a good drunk...subtle, not a caricature...more like a drunk person trying to act sober. I didn't even take the time to notice the first rock hurled at me, or the second for that matter. It was probably the third or forth that kissed my eye. Sharp pain, a flash of red and the sense of sober fear gripped me like a girlfriend. I thought my eye was hanging out the socket, I kept asking what happened and specifically asking if my eye was still in the socket...I felt stupid, once the pain was set in place, once the assessment of damage had been made, I only felt stupid; drunk with stupidity.

Moments like those...all you do afterwards is imagine that one decision that could've voided the rest of the accident from happening. An abortion that never came. I don't like dwelling on these phantom parallels, instead I just sit and swear to myself never to let it happen again. To always trust the first instinct that says "I don't want to do this." The problem with that instinct is that his voice is so weak and boring. No one wants to listen to that guy, especially while Cunning Logic is scatting and doing voice impressions of all your heroes and they're all convincing you that Instinct is just scared and not taking into consideration the spoils of success. It shouldn't surprise you that I listen to Cunning Logic too often, always attempting to take advantage of spontaneous situations. Sometimes I win, fewer times I lose. Today, just as back when my eye literally got rocked, I lost.

I had to play that move where you stand by the turn style in the subway and ask someone with an unlimited metrocard to swipe you through. I was lucky to find that Samaritan after asking just twice. She was sweet about it, a true saint and on my way home I regretted not asking her name since I was already planning to write this post. Thank you Samaritan.

Confessions of a Crap Artist: Can't Get Over Overdraft

2010-03-14T11:48:00.000-07:00

About Not Having Money and Overdraft

Modern Marvels should one day include the bank concept known as Overdraft. Concept is an underplay, Phenomenon would be more accurate. The Phenomenon Known as Overdraft. Nice ring to it...could be, a one day title to a literary work of genius. A coming of age tale about some hero and his dire straits.

Jokes aside, I find it nothing but interesting that without a single cent in my bank account I will have paid my phone, web hosting, and metrocard. Of course there's the overdraft charge as nothing in life is free. When the bank covers you (or at least, when my bank covers me) there is a $32.00 or so charge that is taken from your account. Now being that there is no money in the account (that is why, after all, the account went into overdraft) this brings your account into the negatives. So when you start to fill your imaginary piggy bank, its to get your account to zero before you can actually have any real number in there.

Does it Bother Me?

Not really. I mean...in principle it sort of does but the bother doesn't really amount to much. Now that I'm working it'll sort itself out, I'm not going to waste my time and energy being angry about a few dollars here and there. Some people get really worked up over such matters. My mother for instance, was furious that I was being charged overdraft. She in a very sweet and scary, overprotective mother fashion took to shaking her fist, cursing, and snickering at the bank who handles my account. As if they could hear her from her kitchen. My mother gets excited about being angry, her temper is short, her gall is tall, and her subtlety is as bad as her english.

I don't get too angry because if you really think about it. I shouldn't have been able to pay with money that isn't really there. But I did and I was charged for it. Is it a scam? Of course, Life is one big scam and we're all scam artist...its all about who finds the best medium to work on.

Just Because I'm Losing Doesn't Mean I'm Lost

2010-03-07T16:15:00.000-08:00

The Truth is that which is there, it is the extension of reality. About reality, Philip K. Dick wrote it is, that which does not cease to exist when you stop believing in it. After watching The Curious Case of Benjamin Button for the second time, I find myself sitting here in bed, thinking about a certain truth. Mortal Truth. I think about age, I think about time, circumstance, direction, ambition; I think about motivation, determination, strive and fear. At my hands, do my eyes fall, searching for younger layers of youth, curious of future layers of age. I sit here on this bed and more or less think about Death and all his Friends.

I see this place in terms of Universe. I don't live in an apartment, street, city, state, country, etc...I live in a universe. It has to be that sparse, that complex, otherwise I'm not impressed. Life is too large, too interwoven with multi-facets to be limited in the frame of planet or solar system. Life would burst the seams, compromise the foundation, if such the idea would be to attempt its maintenance within so small a border. Life needs an entire Universe in order to operate.

I hold sacred that every moment is in fact a new universe, an infinity of combinations and codes, endlessly spiraling, with no two moments ever universally repeating. Thats my definition of Life. In this manner it can be said that no one is ever really one person or ever even in the same place twice, we are all cosmonauts, ever changing like scramble suits, indefinitely traveling throughout a universe in a ship called Life that so happens to also be an ocean.

But Life ends. The Universe might have no end, Life does. The Ocean dries up, concentrates into a powerful drop that eventually also departs, evaporates, fuses with the rest of time and space. Its the best you can do to make every moment the Prime of all its possibilities, of all its potentialities. You'll never know if you're right or wrong, there will be no judge, no guideline, no examples from which your recourse will be contrasted to and decided whether you played the right card, took the right door, were at the right places at the right time and so forth. Sure, on Earth others can judge these things, on Earth we have formed opinions about what feels good and what doesn't, what a good life is and what a good life isn't. However, if you're not careful you might fall into the idea that another person's opinion, because it seems more generally observed than others, is a fact. But here I say to you my opinion: your universe and their universe will never be one. There is no right choice or wrong one, there is only the choice...and having made it, you have changed the universe and if it feels right to you then you've made your right choice.

29 Days of Perky Pat

2010-03-02T14:01:00.000-08:00

Today is the day Philip K. Dick died, 28 years ago. Its easy to keep count of the years because I'll be 28 this year, Philip K. Dick died 29 days before I was born. I wonder how much can happen in 29 days? I'm sure the answer is plenty. In any case those 29 days were the only 29 days in 1982 where neither Philip K. Dick nor I, were presently alive on earth. Sure, I was alive but in my mother's womb. She, my mother was presently alive on earth, I was presently alive inside her.

Those 29 days are somewhat of a trade-off between the world Philip K. Dick experienced and the world I'll experience once born. Funny thing is, he'll filter his way into my world, subtly unveiling his mind to me piece by piece; and I through my own experiences was shaping my own mind to, when the time came, understand his mind as if his thoughts were in fact my thoughts.

I wish I owned the Cold Souls DVD, maybe I'll watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind or Burn After Reading, its weird how most of the Philip K. Dick adapted works to film are so far off the mark, while anything written by Charlie Kaufman reads like a lost volume from the PKD bibliography. By the way, Charlie Kaufman wrote a Scanner Darkly script some years ago. I should finish the night with Bladerunner but so much in so little time...I might just have to settle for rewatching Roy Batty's death scene. I wonder what the Coen Brothers would do by way of loosely adapted film to a Philip K. Dick novel or short story, or a group of short stories made into a novel?

Benji the Hater: The Perversion of Perfection

2010-02-18T14:29:00.000-08:00

Benji Says

I hate car commercials, not just because I'm a dog and I can't drive (thats what you think!). Not just because I have no idea what the acronym, APR stands for, or why terms like "0% finance" should make me stain the carpet. I'm just not that impressed by them. Sure, some of the music is good; better than most commercials actually but I also love the soundtrack to a lot of god-awful 70s and 80s films, it doesn't make the piece of shit any better!

Here's the commercial that I just saw:

Forward Living, huh? I'd rather live my life in reverse like my man, Leonard Shelby. Seriously, who wrote this?!

SCENE - Man in Lexus stops at Wolf in a city street at night. They regard one another, in an ambiguous, pseudo-gay, we-used-to-be-ex-lovers sort of way. They pass one another and corny European Coldplay-esque music cues.

I wish I were that Wolf in the street I would've fucked that dude's life up! I'd make meatloaf out of that dickbag's face!

You heard it from me, Benji!

American Idlers

2010-02-18T13:43:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I went to see a friend perform live at an open mic showcase in the lower east side. It was an interesting night. However, I came to a rather obvious conclusion based upon some of the other acts of that same interesting night. There are people who are purposely attempting to become pop stars. This is a no-brainer if I'd only stop to consider today's entertainment, Making the Band, American Idol, and other shows that turn nobodies into pseudo-stars overnight. It shouldn't surprise me then, when a girl heads on stage half-naked with back-up dancers at an open mic. The back-up dancers, shocked me more than the see-thru nylon bodysuit. All she needed was a headset microphone and flashy lights. Of course the song was generic and the performance was an insincere attempt to ironically "dress up" the otherwise boring song.

The notion of chasing fame is not a new one, I'd just never experienced it in person before. Half of the acts in this open mic event were doing just that, purposely promoting themselves to become the next copy of whatever pop artist is currently the representation of their respective genre. I'm not angry, nor am I passing judgement, I'm only a bit confused. I don't understand why someone would purposely want to become that big. I guess to me, I only see the bad side. Tabloids, Paparazzi, E! Hollywood stories, stress, claustrophobia, or even simply not being able to do everyday things without people freaking out about it. To each is own, "one man's waste is another man's soap." I suppose being rich and influential is enough of a compensation but thats only if you're poor. Once you're rich and influential, where do you go from there? No Human is satisfied once they're dissatisfied. All it takes is one grievance to get the dominos tumbling. Any brief moment of accomplishment is only going to bring about more confidence to attempt new accomplishments; ones you never even desired before becoming rich and influential. And the higher you climb the harder you'll fall, and if you fall too early, you'll try so hard to get back up and in the Entertainment Industry, which drools out new versions of what's Popularly Acceptable weekly, you'll find that you've been replaced even before you fell.

But Fame and The Pursuit of Fame is a talent. It really is, its hard work to be safe and relevant during an entire career. It takes energy, innovation, and an uncompromising will to try to "make it" in the commercial music industry. My problem is that I usually expect an artist to use this energy, innovation, and uncompromising will on their music itself. I don't care about the gimmick, because more than anything I listen to the music, not the recording, not the video, or stage extravaganza. But listening alone, is no longer enough, we have passed that point where listening is stimulating enough; we need that television from Back to the Future II, the one Marty's son is watching with like 12 channels on at once. We need phones that can be used as the media equivalent to the swiss army knife. Ours, is the ADD-Age, in addition to not being able to stay interested in one thing for too long we need a sum of everything at once. Sadly, its nearly impossible to thoroughly appreciate anything through such simultaneous over-indulgence.

The Past Must Be Heard (Loudly)

2010-02-17T02:02:00.000-08:00

Conclusions by Luigi Russolo

from The Art of Noises (1913)

Conclusion 1

Futurist musicians must continually enlarge and enrich the field of sounds. This corresponds to a need in our sensibility. We note, n fact, in the composers of genius, a tendency towards the most complicated dissonances. As these move further and further away from pure sound, they almost achieve noise-sound. This need and this tendency cannot be satisfied except by the adding and the substitution of noises for sounds.

Conclusion 2

Futurist musicians must substitute for the limited variety of tones possessed by orchestral instruments today the infinite variety of tones of noises, reproduced with appropriate mechanisms.

Conclusion 3

The musician's sensibility, liberated from facile and traditional rhythm, must find in noises the means of extension and renewal, given that every noise offers the union of the most diverse rhythms apart from the predominant one.

Conclusion 4

Since every noise contains a predominant general tone in its irregular vibrations it will be easy to obtain in the construction of instruments which imitate them a sufficiently extended variety of tones, semitones, and quarter-tones. This variety of tones will not remove the characteristic tone from each noise, but will amplify only its texture or extension.

Conclusion 5

The practical difficulties in constructing these instruments are not serious. Once the mechanical principal which produces the noise has been found, its tone can be changed by following the same general laws of acoustics. If the instrument is to have a rotating movement, for instance, we will increase or decrease the speed, whereas if it is to not have rotating movement the noise-producing parts will vary in size and tautness.

Conclusion 6

The new orchestra will achieve the most complex and novel aural emotions not by incorporating a succession of life-imitating noises but by manipulating fantastic juxtapositions of these varied tones and rhythms. Therefore an instrument will have to offer the possibility of tone changes and varying degrees of amplification.

Conclusion 7

The variety of noises is infinite. If today, when we have perhaps a thousand different machines, we can distinguish a thousand different noises, tomorrow, as new machines multiply, we will be able to distinguish ten, twenty, or thirty thousand different noises, not merely in a simply imitative way, but to combine them according to our imagination.

Conclusion 8

We therefore invite young musicians of talent to conduct a sustained observation of all noises, in order to understand the various rhythms of which the are composed, their principal and secondary tones. By comparing the various tones of noises with

those of sounds, they will be convinced of the extent to which the former exceed the latter. This will afford not only an understanding, but also a taste and passion for

noises. After being conquered by Futurist eyes our multiplied sensibilities will at last hear with Futurist ears. In this way the motors and machines of our industrial cities will one day be consciously attuned, so that every factory will be transformed into an intoxicating orchestra of noises.

Fish Out of Water

2010-02-12T03:11:00.000-08:00

I had a dream last night

a fish on land

gasping for breath

just laughed

and sang this song

is life like this for everyone?

Gill Expansion

I love these lyrics. They are by an artist who's songs are instantly residence of my heart and mind. Lhasa de Sela, who I have blogged about a number of times already, is like if my brain were to separate from my body and sing to me riddles that may one day lead to a reunion.

Forget that "fish" is a very common symbol for savior, forget that "water" similarly symbolizes origin or purity and truth, just think of yourself and your life, just think about how you breathe. Its no big deal to you because you are used to it. How painful it must be to a fish? What were the steps for that ancestor of ours that dared to venture further than the rest and emerge from that primordial beach. Surely Grandpa Zoa had to become amphibious before reptilian and later mammal. How painful was it, breathing air, to the amphibian pioneers? That is before they got used to it.

I immediately think about scent. Have you ever been on a train with a noxiously oppressive odor? Have you noticed that some commuters remain in that same train car, regardless of the green cloud above their heads. After a while, the olfactory senses become used to the otherwise repugnant stench. The way a serious cigarette smoker can't smell his/her clothes the way a non-smoker (like myself) can immediately become repulsed by it.

The lyrics bring to my mind, overstimulation and how an outsider may respond to what may appear absolutely normal and in fact, natural to others.

I love that the fish laughs, perhaps finding the situation ridiculous. "Only a masochist would live under these conditions," the fish might think to itself. If breathing in this song can be said to be the act of living itself, then you may do well to conclude the fish observes a pain that rolls synonymous to living. A somewhat prerequisite suffering taxed on us land breathing creatures. If this is the case then we don't seem to mind, in fact, some of us believe it natural. "Life's a bitch and then you die!"

I don't think Life is a bitch, Aesop Rock sums it quite nicely when he said, "Life's not a bitch/ life is a beautiful woman/ you're just mad cuz she won't let you get that pussy/ maybe she didn't feel ya shared any similar interests/ or maybe you're just an asshole who couldn't sweet talk the princess..." Its all about circumstance, true-- but is pain truly part of life? Has someone lived more simply under the basis that they've experienced more pain and suffering than another? Or even experience itself, is Life defined by experience? If a person does, by comparison, very "little" in life, does that in some sense imply that that person has wasted a chance to truly live? By such criteria, only the thrill seekers are worth the lungs in their chests. But most thrill seekers are just bored and overstimulated, they constantly need to "raise the bar" to feel as if Life has any meaning. Nothing wrong with that. I myself am bored and in many aspects overstimulated. But is there anything wrong with being satisfied, truly satisfied and happy doing nothing.

What was I talking about? Whatever!

Pac Man: Domestic Ghosts (Episode 002)

2010-02-06T16:44:00.000-08:00

Pac Man takes the trash out after dinner. The neighborhood is quiet, the same. He stands there in his driveway and out comes Mrs. Bottle Pop, she smiles and waves with her slim cigarette in hand. Her dark skin, immaculately smooth and fragranced by dish-soap and sweat.

"You smell nice Sandy."

"Oh, thanks hon. I can't imagine that I would, after chasing those monsters to sleep." She indicates the house behind her.

"Yea." Pac man tries to pretend he's interested. His mind has already given up on the conversation. Mrs. Bottle Pop senses his eyes tracing her.

"I saw when you pulled up this afternoon, you seemed a bit distraught hon, everything alright?"

He wanted to say "no," but, "no less than any other day" was what become of the idea.

They shortly returned, each to their steps and up to their houses, in bed with their spouses as the same night closed them off from any further activity until the merciful sun arose the following day.

Benji the Hater: Well Gang, Looks Like We Have Another Asshole in Our Hands!

2010-02-04T07:27:00.000-08:00

Benji Says

So there's this douche bag of a character named Frederick Herman Jones but to many of us that watched the popular cartoon series, we knew him as Freddie.

We all remember his stupid orange ascot that matched his stupid-ass orange shoes; also, his anxiousness to split the mystery gang into groups and search for clues. Let it be known that he always choose to be paired with one of the females, what an asshole!

Scooby-Doo Where Are You?

I was never crazy about this show anyway, but that guy didn't make it any easier. I fucking hate Freddie, maybe even more than I hate Freddie Prinze Jr.

I hate his voice, I hate his comments and suggestions. He looks like a jock who couldn't play due to an injury and somehow got stuck with the mystery gang, if for no other reason than to ball Daphne or Velma if not both.

Too bad Shaggy was such a pothead, if I were him I'd have told Freddy what's what! I should've been Scooby-Doo, I WOULD'VE SMACK THE SHIT outta Freddy and any "ghosts" who got fresh! You heard it from me, Benji!

In the Beginning There Was the Word

2010-02-01T11:16:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading God: A Biography by Jack Miles and I must recommend this book to anyone at all interested in religion or mythology or literary criticism. Jack Miles presents his thoughts through neutral intrigue and carries the reader forward, on a second hand adventure. Its almost as if I'm watching the author read the bible and following as he draws commentary that provides more for The Bible as a work of literature than a work of spiritual worship. Providing the first helps you understand the second, or at least opens new perspectives on the second.

I think I began reading this book in November. Or I began reading this book once again, since I've owned the book for a few years now and only was able to get passed the first 3-4 chapters this November. I've been really bad at reading, lately. Finishing the last sentence last night while attempting to watch The Matrix: Revolutions was somewhat satisfying. In fact very pleasurable, if it were only the book. I really want to talk to people about Jack Miles' Pulitzer Prize winner but so many of my friends don't want to hear about God. Immediately, guards go up and they assume I'm at all interested in a manner that finds me attached religiously to the subject. Not so, I couldn't be more detached after reading God: A Biography. Ironically enough, I'm quite eager to buy a copy of The Holy Bible to read. Its an important piece of literature and history. Not that the events in the Bible are in fact historical but the Bible itself and its effects have shaped history since its completion. It brings to mind, what religions have come from the reading of this work and also how much has become interpretation versus what is literally written in the scripture.

I think I will now reread Philip K. Dick's The Divine Invasion accompanied by a side reading of another book I've procrastinated to commence, The Gnostic Jung.

Pac Man: Domestic Ghosts (Episode 001)

2010-02-01T10:29:00.000-08:00

Pac Mac walks into his home. He can hear the kids running upstairs, the living room's a mess. Mrs. is cooking, she blows her husband a kiss. Pac Man smiles though he notes its no longer up to him. He smiles everyday when they repeat that same ritual. Mrs' kisses aren't even really there, they're just a reaction, like slapping the air for an annoying fly. Pac Man heads upstairs into the bathroom and sits at the corner of the tub's rim. Holding his breath for a good minute before letting it back out. Breathing heavily, like he used to when something exciting would happen to him.

Benji the Hater: Make Your Face Behind Closed Doors, Please

2010-01-30T10:10:00.000-08:00

Benji Says:

I fucking hate these chicks that are in so much of a hurry that they have to put on make-up on the train. I don't give a fuck how fly you are, that shit makes you look desperate, ho! That shit embarrasses me for you. Either wake up on time and fucking fix your face in the privacy of your own stupid home or just deal with your natural face, which quite honestly isn't helped much by make-up unless you're about to get your picture taken; if you're cute then you're cute and if you're not then you're not, you don't really expect to fool me. After all, its powder and lipstick not fucking CGI! Get it together ladies. You heard it from me, Benji!

Music Video Fridays: Sum of Summer

2010-01-29T09:54:00.000-08:00

I love this video and I love to love Donna Summer. This song is Kylie Minogue at her best and Donner Summer not even trying. The blonde guy dressed in all-tight-all-white is awesome! He looks high off his mind, then again I would be too as this song is Ecstasy as a melody, not to mention in the 70s Donna Summer was brown cocaine. Seriously though, this song is beyond sexy, beyond seductive; I feel like a mosquito who bites a vampire. Whatever that means.

And this is Donna Summer at her best:

Wash it All Away

2010-01-25T10:13:00.000-08:00

Its a perfect rainy day. Ideal for staying in doors and lazing about. As the scum gets washed away outside, as metropolitan grime and filth are sucked down gutters and drains, what should i employ myself to for the majority of this wet day before heading out later? Not sure if many are familiar with Anjali's song "Rainy Day" but listening to it would definitely be part of the first few things I do after finally ascending from bed. There's also the affair of breakfast and a banana-peanut butter milkshake I've had my plots set on. The rest is up for grabs but will most likely involve more music.

Confessions of a Crap Artist: If You'd Been a Dog...

2010-01-19T17:01:00.000-08:00

KNIVES OUT

Job searching is depressing, I'm quite unmotivated; and what some might be shocked to hear is that I'm okay with being unmotivated. Just to be clear, I mean unmotivated with job searching, not life! Life is very inspiring but job searching is like walking around looking for an available knife to be stabbed with. Only no one wants to stab you unless you are a certain type of bleeder, better yet unless experience has proven you to be a certain type of bleeder. So even if you are what they're looking for, it counts for nothing unless someone else says it for you, like a previous knife that can vouch for you.

I still haven't mastered how to pretend to be excited about being bled. Analogy aside, there is nothing that I want to do as far as jobs are concerned. Not only is there nothing I want to apply for but there's also nothing I want to learn, or study to develop some sort of career in a certain field or another.

I'm sick of the whole affair. I got to figure something out because a man gets to certain age where he deserves the face he wears, and I don't want to deserve that face that might await me on the other side of that mirror. Its a tired face, an accusingly cold face, with regrets hiding in every wrinkle like water collecting into erosion.

People Thought Honey was Made by Magic!

2010-01-14T18:44:00.000-08:00

What's better than honey? A honeybee. Has anyone, any artist, inventor, or craftsman created anything as good as honey, ever? No.

I want a honeybee the size of a bull dog as a pet. I'll name him Aldous, or her Pollie. We'll get into wild mystery solving adventures, (think Scooby-Doo but with a non-talking giant, buzzing honey bee). I'll feed him/her honey nut cheerios, golden grams, honey buns and we'll hang out watching TCM with good old Robert Osborne introducing each feature. "Hahahaha," my honey bee and I will whip our heads back laughing at yet another classic, witty comment from Bob. Robert Osborne will of course eventually join our mystery gang.

In the evening I'll walk Aldous/Pollie and he/she will buzz frantically when someone plays Feist's song Honey Honey.

How Far, Icarus, How Far?

2010-01-11T17:53:00.000-08:00

FALL FOR GRACE

The story of Icarus is one that I've had as of late, very freshly in the fluency of thoughts. The story resonates an ongoing truth, analogously, about Man. We are that creature that will fly too close to the sun, regardless of how good a thing we have we will carelessly push passed safe and destroy even ourselves to savor happiness. At least that is my interpretation of the myth of Icarus applied philosophically to Man.

Found in any addiction, any vice or obsession, its the echo of Icarus' fall, cloud through cloud, ending in a death-pounding plunge into the Icarian Sea. He could not contend himself with flight, an achievement in itself so marvelous that following his father, Daedalus' instructions or precautions would have proven alone, a reward. The reward of flight. But Icarus took advantage, saw an opportunity and decided to withdraw the most he could from the experience. Of course, he paid with his life yet when he flew--Good God, how he flew! It could never be said that in comparison to Daedalus' flight, of the two it was certainly his son, Icarus who flew. Freely, with the confidence and command of a naturally winged creature, that is how Icarus flew; while Daedalus remained a human flapping wax wings and thereby remaining alive, survived his son.

Taking this myth and applying to it, one of the current and more obvious areas of human ingenuity to which Icarus may play as a perfect analogy, I find myself conflicted. Conflicted because upon reflection to Man's daring and careless innovation, I at times feel like a Daedalus rather than that plunging, screaming, wingless man falling his last seconds of life away. The good example of today's "wax wings" is found in technology. The wax wings themselves were a technology and Daedalus, known for his ability as a master craftsman (earlier, he had designed the labyrinth for King Minos to trap the Minotaur). Technology alone is not the harmful flight. Tools are helpful by definition and their utilitarian function has helped to in turn, define Man. We are after all, a tool using animal. But so long has passed between the wheel, fire, and spear to maglev trains, space travel, and atom bombs; we are approaching a peak to the Information Age. We are approaching Singularity.

And there my friends, is when the sun is too close and we heed not the previous warnings or the consequence of flying farther and faster with wax wings. In the myth, I side with Icarus. I side with the idea that no limits should hinder experience; that Man must push beyond, regardless of what consequence may result. Even if you expire yourself in the process, you at least lived a moment to its fullest and most possibly, dangerous potential. This being my stand, one would furrow their brow to see me swiftly transformed into a scolding Daedalus when Singularity is brought up. My position changes, I believe, for a very valid purpose. Singularity is so perverse, so destructive to the idea of what Man has been as, that its hard to compare it lightly to a pair of wax wings when its more analogously accurate to compare Singularity to a highly evolved suicide method.

Of course, my conflict is much deeper. After all, a man with wings is just as perverse as downloading your mind into a computer. I am farther removed from the Icarus myth to be at all shocked by it but I assume part of the thrill in the story was applying Man domain over an unnatural and therefore exotic tool (wax wings). There is absolutely no difference between wax wings and Singularity. And still I am a practical Daedalus who sees only a minimal mean to an end, while Icarian engineers see a new playground, a new opening to peek through the eyes of a god, a careless creator.

Try as I will I cannot be upset with the Icaruses of my time because there is no separation. There is no division of Man, where this side is Icarus and the other Daedalus. Man is a unified experience of the Universe, what one man creates, all Man creates; what one man is bound to do all Man is bound to exercise. There is only the collective representation. So it is logical that I include myself as part of that Icarus that happens to be 21st Century Man. Elemental as I am to this 21st Century Icarus, one can see why I understand. I can pardon the reasons--reasons, which I feel need not be apologized for in the first place--but I mourn. I prepare myself for that fall. I mourn for everything that came before that descent, all the heights and cleverness that lead to the creation of wax wings. I mourn for that falling creature who flew too close to the sun; who had a good thing before becoming curious about what was further up and unsatisfied with playing it safe. Falling the last seconds of his life away.

It Looks Bleak

2010-01-11T13:00:00.001-08:00

I really hate to sound like that dude everyone avoids because as Aesop says, he has "prophetic opinions but can't remember where his drink is." But a phone named Nexus One scares the hell out of me! Its just too cocky to name a phone Nexus One, as it is to name a phone Android. The next step would be to use the phone as the brain of an actual humanoid...And when the Nexus Six arrives there will be no Rick Deckards, and it will be far beyond the point where it was already too late.

"If only you could see what I've seen with your eyes."

A good friend once told me I have a love/hate relationship with technology where something like a new phone creeps me the hell out but the same innovation applied to an electric musical instrument bedazzles me into supernova sprinkles. This is true! Its my hypocritical cross to bear. Maybe I should ease up and not worry but I don't want to go out of fashion, I don't want humans be a thing of the past. Combine the Nexus One and Singularity, how much space is left for the flesh?!

A Mile Up in Heaven

2009-12-26T10:23:00.000-08:00

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead - (2007)

Directed by Sidney Lumet

Starring Philip Seymour Hoffman, Ethan Hawke,

Marisa Tomei, and Albert Finney

Sidney Lumet's crime drama is always on the verge of going somewhere before a flash back or flash forward interrupts. The effect of this is a subtle distraction that kept me ignorant of the film's heavy substance up until the end. With that said, the idea of knocking off your own parents' jewelry store to cure your dire straits should weigh impressionably enough but Lumet manages to downplay it for me. Its like listening to a song that has no verses just a repeating chorus and then, all of a sudden a grippingly epic bridge, after which the song ends.

The characters are each in good hands as the cast delivers, poignantly, a dark story about loyalty and desperation. I was a bit over anxious to see Albert Finney, who's full entrance is a bit delayed. This was not a problem since Philip Seymour Hoffman as a cocky jerk is always great to watch.

I admit I chuckled a few times, because I remember Sidney Lumet being described as an actor's director, not so much indulging in camera techniques and special effects. This is true, he doesn't but Before the Devil Knows You're Dead is the closest I've seen to a contradiction of that notion. Maybe it was accidental but there were a lot of nicely, seemingly, prepared camera shots. And not mentioning anything of the flashbacks/flashforwards, I was simply surprised that there was a soundtrack. Its pretty cool to see one of your favorite directors taking a fresh take on their craft and still pull through effectively.

Readiness is All

2009-12-24T01:03:00.000-08:00

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

I'll hold you close. Its just you and I now, there is no world, we are enough for the universe; fully finding what it searched during its expansion and contraction. At the heart, body and brain of that point, I'll hold you. How tight? How long? Could we even notice or determine force, time, space when we become so close to each? Essentially entwined, defined into its seams, separation would be like removing hydrogen from an ocean and expecting water to remain.

Frame me with you

border me mine, woman most woman of all

look me there, eye me mine

if all we are then nothing is the goal

an erase, an elimination of one another

canceled and matched, nothing rising from us

the universe, a sheet that wraps only us within

frame me with you

pre-sent us ours, definition

completion, a known thing

No background, no mind, and thought has yet to catch up to action, as we stand there in the void fulfilled. You'll cast the one glance that can prove to me that I indeed have sight, I'll say the one word that finally proves you aren't deaf; and then, when I look at you and you speak to me, its two suns embracing into a black hole romance. Massive, central, and overwhelmingly insatiable. Queen of the half world, empress of the maiden council, and mother to the would-be elements that remember how well you fit in my arms.

I know I said I wouldn't write anymore, that this must end. Yet, I satisfy not, with a dim fading, a quiet exit with subtle shifts of tone and depth; shifts that disappear directly before the viewer, years before he even begins to notice. We have to explode, we have to crash in a frenzy and then release an energy stored within the tension and hostility we use as magnetic fields. I'll peel back the layers and it will be with Truth that you'll discern me, and I you. If only for a moment that I could fully have you in exchange for myself, in your possession, everything in its right place and nothing else having any matter whatsoever.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

I'm Drowning...

2009-12-24T01:00:00.001-08:00

Brothers - (2009) Directed by Jim Sheridan

Starring Tobey Maguire, Jake Gyllenhaal, Natalie Portman

Today I saw Jim Sheridan's new film, Brothers. Starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Tobey Maguire as brothers, with Natalie Portman as the latter's wife. Tobey's performance was pretty good, Jake and Natalie Portman were okay but nothing special. The soundtrack was corny and besides the climax when Tobey is scaring the hell out of you, there isn't much more in this film to take home. Katherine Bigelow's The Hurt Locker did far more for the topic of a soldier's psychosis and her play on tension, far more stimulating.

I understood Sheridan's split between Tobey and Jake's characters in the beginning after Tobey's character Sam is presumed dead. This division, was also one of mood, where it seemed one was actually watching two movies. On one hand you have a commercial, romantic drama about an army widow who manages to piece her life together and eventually find love with her husband's brother. Its sappy and all the more cringing to watch because of the music thats played along to these scenes. On the other hand, you have a commercial, action, contemporary war thriller about a hostage soldier and his survival and psychological breakdown. The only reason I absorbed the romantic drama was to feel the awkward mending of these two worlds when they finally converge. Such a payoff went short changed.

I do hope Maguire continues to deliver performances of note, like he has in Brothers. I might not be the only one who'll confess I'll be alright if he's not in Spider-Man 4.

You Have No Idea How This Works, Do You?

2009-12-24T00:56:00.000-08:00

Persona - (1966) Directed by Ingmar Bergman

Starring Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann

Just as when I watched my first Godard, then my first Fellini, with Bergman its going to be a while before I can respond to what I saw.

Michael Clayton - (2007) Directed by Tony Gilroy

Starring George Clooney, Tom Wilkinson, Michael O'Keefe

Sydney Pollack, Tilda Swinton

I should've saw this in theatres. Love the pace and the art direction. Next time I watch the DVD I'm going to see it in black and white, even though the color looks really nice.

First Scene Dissolve

2009-12-13T22:51:00.000-08:00

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

I'm so tired. My legs barely stand me and there is a hunger inside that echoes tumultuously, with tempest of most concrete vigor do I move about. Hatred is my propeller; my engine, a glowing heart erupting with magma and fumes of shame. The few times I saw you today (I try to see less and less), it was as if, my hatred were offered a compromise. As if noted by my palely apparent countenance, one of deprived honor and starved dignity, a pathetic hand was extended forward with a cupcake.

My sweet tooth and all its fallen graces!

Its an insult! One perfectly visible and recognized, yet how I long to reach for you; such a waist to not have.

I took a break and on a street, under a canopy, I stood. The rain was cold but the air warmer. I had space and my lungs went to work on the early night's dew. You walked out with a colleague, speaking. I wanted some water, it was raining all around me; I was the thirsty, drowning man. It took every bit of each lung to punch my chest forward; every wattage of street lights, to keep my eyes from parking on you.

You are all they have to offer me, and it is true that you are indeed a great offer; but I can't--it wears me out. My fake plastic love, do you understand? It wears me out. I need this hatred and these lungs to roar, snatch, claw, and tear at the winds that so eagerly wish to pass me by. I need my tension, my open eyes that sleep and cry very little but do only absorb, greedily, everything in its path.

Its with love that I must leave you, its with further hate that the action springs awake into motion.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

Weekend's Playlist

2009-12-13T21:29:00.000-08:00

Mutliplex Identities.

The Prize - (1963) Directed by Mark Robson

Starring Paul Newman, Edward G. Robinson, Elke Sommer

Paul Newman and Edward G. Robinson. It was a fun movie and Paul Newman really seemed to be enjoying himself but I wanted to see more of Edward G.

From Here to Eternity - (1953) Directed by Fred Zimmerman

Starring Burt Lancaster, Montgomery Clift, Deborah Kerr,

Donna Reed

Not what I expected at all. I guess because of the famous beach kiss scene, I was under the impression that the entire story was to be lead by Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr. I was expected far more romance, in epic scales, and overly dramatic departures; I was expecting An Affair to Remember mixed with Casablanca. What I got in the stead of my imagined plot was a really good drama about identity, responsibility, and capability.

I couldn't get over that the film wasn't an epic love story until the bombing of pearl harbor. Being aware of the film's setting one would think I'd be obviously expecting the bombing of Pearl Harbor but it caught me off guard just as much as it did the soldiers in the film. Some really good action scenes.

The Wilby Conspiracy - (1975) Directed by Ralph Nelson

Starring Sidney Portier, Michael Caine, and Nicol Williamson

I had my doubts at the beginning but as the film progressed, it became better to watch. Its so interesting how violence in films changed in the seventies, it definitely became more about realism and pushing the boundaries of dismantled censorships. And, what is a 70s film without some sort of car chase scene? In this case a jeep chase.

The ending has its pay-off and so does Rutger Hauer's appearance, it almost makes up for the bad driving scene that takes place with a fake background in the first quarter of the film.

All of Me - (1984) Directed by Carl Reiner

Starring Steve Martin, Lili Tomlin, Victoria Tennant

Yes! This movie is awesome...Of course, I removed the color from my TV set. Lily Tomlin is so darling.

December Heart Beats for Kylie Minogue

2009-12-11T00:30:00.000-08:00

Let Me Know What You're Like

2009-12-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

Look there, among scatters of voices and roused audience, that by their volume and pace orbit like violent debris; a gauntlet for the cosmonaut's atmospheric departure, among this spinning tetris my queen in black speaks.

Like a death, you announce with vivid detail, words from which I am absent. I make from one end to another; beats of hearts like bullets firing through a spark, an angry, tiny spark that shoots a long way. Your body, like a continent, I the foreigner. From borders I climb and hide in the tresses of your most abandoned attentions, where no thought inhabits such barren lands. Like a thief I make for these edges and consult my stubborn friend, Humility, its with the softest caresses that she convinces me to stay while opening my back with her blade.

What do I wait for? Is it Opportunity and its grifter tricks that send parlors a-roar? Is it Amnesia, that darling little fairy of repair, who patches the wound in a band-aid, too much matching the complexion that one forgets to remove it, mistaking it later for skin.

She's a Deftones song, something like Moana, something especially like Moana. A last song, an empire desired invitation to. She so carves my heart, and the stage with all its actors and rustled anxieties, glows like trembling jellyfish in fields of gossamer bedding. The sparks of nerves, the same bullets but now firing information, sensational execution!

And Moana as she exits this stage in her creme colored winter coat, an indigo scarf noosed about her pretty neck, on an escalator my eyes say goodbye to the back of her head. Yet another day that has introduced me as, "coward".

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

From Above: A View

2009-12-10T23:11:00.000-08:00

For Displaying the Unknown:

if its neutral it can work. if you don't stand and say this is evidence that proves such and such. if you can present what you've seen and let the audience make their mind up on their own, without your influence. if the blank canvas can be the painting and each viewer, a participant who adds on it what they will. your job should thus be to open a window and say, "look! look, I saw this; please take a moment to look for yourself as I did." you won't demand a discussion or praise for your discovery (if it could even be considered a discovery). your only hope is to share that sense of the unexplained, even if only temporarily unexplained. to remember that still, there are much ordinary mysteries hidden in plain view where no one ever bothers to look anymore. at most a neutral agreement, an accordance that we, together as well as separate can certainly say, we're not one hundred percent sure of what's going on here.

Arena is Spanish for Sand

2009-12-08T10:00:00.001-08:00

Blood and Sand - (1941) Directed by Rouben Mamoulian

Starring Tyrone Power, Linda Darnell, Rita Hayworth, and

Alla Nazimova

I don't like hearing spanish spoken with an english accent, it immediately turns me off. Blood and Sand wasn't too bad about it but it had its moments. This was such a grand production, so epic and well shot that you can forgive the gringo "T" in "Garabato" or "Carmencita".

The story taking place among bull fighters made me think of what a good metaphor that is for Man's obsession with Power and Control. To dominate a beast, an angry animal with horns and stampeding excitement that could split life from you at any given moment; the thrill that must come from being a matador must feel like you've become the bull itself. Interesting that this is the same story of Icarus, over and over has this story been told through different settings and characters yet they all have the same fall downwards. Whether your bull is painting, music, business, or film, it seems that Man repeatedly flies too close to the sun as if he will be the special case spared by the heat that most certainly melts wax.

I really do wish this film was in spanish.

After finishing the film I had the urge to see Madonna's Take a Bow video in which Emilio Munoz (I always thought it Jim Caviezel) plays a famous Matador (which he is in real life) and she his neglected and abused lover. I never realized how much the video is suited for that song without any specific reference from the song to the video. Madonna's song makes one think of Hollywood celebrities.

This video did things, to and for me as a teenager. Needless to say Madonna in lingerie, writhing alone in bed was not the most innocent of images a teenager with a vivid imagination, and an army of developing hormones could be exposed to. I can't get the song out of my head now.

Run Aweigh

2009-12-07T10:24:00.000-08:00

Edge of the City - (1957) Directed by Martin Ritt

Starring John Cassavetes, Sidney Portier, and Jack Warden

Martin Ritt's first full feature film is a small story with big subjects, racism, labor, and military desertion. Shot in black and white and mostly on location, Edge of the City has a very gritty feel. There's a scene where Cassavetes is walking to an apartment building and on the sidewalk there are people, out and about with their business, a kid is bouncing a handball against a stoop; it looks so natural and real, more so than I'm used to seeing in the 50s. Also I enjoyed from where some of the shots were caught, a lot of time's the actors where on the other side of a gate or shot from farther away. I'm glad I saw this film because I've of Martin Ritt being mentioned as one of the "New York Directors" in addition to John Frankenheimer and Sidney lumet but I had never seen a Martin Ritt film that actually took place in New York.

As much as I enjoyed Edge of the City, I must add that I wasn't too crazy about the soundtrack, the jazz tracks were well chosen, but the other orchestra pieces seemed a bit over done, given the film, in my opinion, a layer of unintentional humor. This wasn't that major of an issue since the film held its own and that part of the soundtrack didn't appear too often but when it did I felt myself a bit aware of it.

Billy Liar - (1963) Directed by John Schlesinger

Starring Tom Courtney, Julie Christie

If Tom Courtney reminds you at all of Albert Finney in this film its because Courtney was Finney's understudy for the theatre production of Billy Liar. But that aside, Courtney gives a really great performance as the middle-class young man with a vivid imagination and less vivid practical sense for his ideas. He is a liar but only because his lies are a way of dressing up his mundane life among his contemporary Yorkshire. And although Billy means well and wants to leave for London to pursue his dream of becoming a script writer, he can't seem to build up the courage to actually sever himself from the town that grants his imagination its most use, escape.

This film was shot under the photographic direction of Denys Coop...who is proving to be one of my favorite cinematographers. This is evident within the first 3 minutes of the film.

Must've Look Like I Was Dancing with the Wall

2009-12-04T22:37:00.000-08:00

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

When I saw you today, in your bright red peak coat, black skirt and black leggings I had to stop reading. I wouldn't be able to continue reading if I heard you speak and I couldn't stand reading if you stood near without saying a word. And you did speak, of course not to me but all the same, for me. When you left the room, I put my book away and I had no more use for being in a room without you.

Later on, when you're on my floor, I make my way up. I time it precisely so that while I'm on my way to my room you're on your way down. As we pass, you smile at me, possibly only because I'm staring. Its a quick, automatic smile; the kind you give to a sudden, familiar stranger when you catch their eye for a moment, unexpectedly. A smile already prepped at the border of the lips, rigged to go off for any mailman, doorman, police officer, and any other insignificant variable that deems harmless enough to spare a twitched curve of kindness.

I didn't see you for the rest of the night. Purposely I remained away. I thought to myself, how fulfilling a smile a can be, regardless of its motivation. Finally when I was ready to see you again, you were already gone. And I was like that fisherman who excitedly battles the waters because finally his bait got a hold of a bite, only to reel in a disappointed reality, my hook got caught onto a boot.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

Wooden Realities

2009-12-03T13:16:00.000-08:00

A Real Boy? Really?

I was watching Pinocchio with my niece last night and noticed something peculiar about how Pinocchio becomes a real boy. At the end, after Lil' P mortally sacrifices himself to save the life of his "father", the jocular, mustachioed Gepetto; Lil' P was not only awarded with the return of life but he is transformed into a real boy. The Blue Fairy grants Pinocchio authenticity in response to his proving himself to be brave, honest, and unselfish. Hmmm. This caught me as a bit of a surprise. Sure Lil' P was brave and definitely unselfish but he never quite did prove himself to be honest.

A Boy Who Won't Be Good, Might Just as Well Be Made of Wood

The only time he was tested in matters of truthfulness, his nose famously marched forward, practically poking the Blue Fairy. Never again in the film did this facet of character come under examination or trial. True, I'll admit he never again lies in the film, but then again he never is given an opportunity to actually tell a truth, thus never proving that he can. At the sentimental reunion of Lil' P and Gepetto, inside Monstro the Whale, there is a point where Gepetto notes Pinocchio's donkey ears and tail. Gepetto asks his "son" for an explanation, as God would a naked Adam. But before Lil' P is given a chance to answer, Gepetto disregards its relevance as he's overjoyed at being reunited with his boy. "Nevermind," Gepetto instructs him. Would Pinocchio have had told the truth if not interrupted? Maybe yes, perhaps no. The little wooden boy's track record for learning a lesson doesn't help him much. In fact, after falling for Honest John's dupe the first time he no sooner hails a second dupe, almost as if he was asking for it. There is no reason why we mightn't assume that Pinocchio had not yet learned his lesson about lying when Gepetto asks about his ass-like features. Of course, we'll never know.

Since Pinocchio did not prove himself to be honest through action, is there another criteria by which the Blue Fairy has judged him so? Is there a logical adherence between her three conditions that governs, if two of the conditions are true then in fact, all three are true? If so, then this is never made clear. However, if Pinocchio has proved himself to be brave and unselfish, then that logical adherence would automatically include honesty and explain the Blue Fairy's decision.

Little Puppet Made of Pine, Awake. The Gift of Life is Thine
Being certain that there are cowardly, selfish individuals who, proudly, are honest; and brave, selfless individuals who are dishonest, I can only comment on how brash the Blue Fairy's reasoning can be if such a reasoning was at all instrumental to her decision. There is also the possibility that to a wooden boy, bravery and sacrifice are of different value than to a human being, and its just a matter of proving the capacity for two out of the three and gaining the third gradually. Let us not forget the Blue Fairy deals with magic, not science or logic. This leaves so much open in ambivalence.

However, viewed exclusively from her words and Pinocchio's actions, (magic aside) there is a carelessness in the Blue Fairy's final decision. I would argue she has been carrying that wand for either, too short or too long a time and has become compromised. To the benefit of the film and Pinocchio, she hastily judges Lil' P's case. I can only hope someone hastily judges mine.

Lonely Entanglements

2009-12-03T02:14:00.000-08:00

Here is a lyric/poem collage, it contains parts of lyrics by Deftones, Lhasa, and Cage; excerpts from the film, Gilda, and a poem by Pablo Neruda. The two photos are by Grace-Kim's series of pictures entitled, Love Hotel.

I'm Her New Cool Meat

Stop I'm drunk

Got you where I want you

Luminous mind, bright Devil

of absolute clusterings, of the upright noon--:

here we are at last, alone...

Stop I'm drunk

without loneliness,

far from the savage city's delirium.

But hate can be a very exciting emotion. Very exciting. Haven't you ever noticed that?...There is heat in it, that one can feel. Didn't you feel it tonight?...I did. It warmed me. Hate is the only thing that has ever warmed me.

Just as a pure line describes a dove's curve,

as the fire honors and nourishes peace,

so you and I made this heavenly outcome.

The mind and love live naked in this house.

Now my jaw and my teeth hurt. I'm choking from gnawing on the ball. And just before I come to move to the back of the car she makes me touch the machine. New murderer.

Lovely Lady Spider loves you best

Begs you to come live in her own nest

Feed you clothes you gives her heart to you

Just as pure...fire...nourishes peace...

Hate is the only thing that has ever warmed me.

Stop I'm drunk

Got you where I want you

Its like the sky opened and God handed you directly to me!

Furious dreams, rivers of bitter certainty,

decisions harder than the dreams of a hammer

flowed into the lovers' double cup,

Lonely Spider waiting in her web

Hoping she can catch some happiness

Then who should stumble into here but you

First untie me (Stop! I'm drunk) untie me for now. You said you would, right? And you were right (stop I'm drunk!)

Got you where I want you

Soon I'll let you go

Got you where I want you

Soon I'll let you go

until those twins were lifted into balance

on a scale: the mind and love, like two wings.

--So this transparency was built

Feeling like your heart is beating, its only for me!

Stop I'm drunk

Gilda Spins a Web

2009-12-03T01:00:00.000-08:00

My Monthly Aresian Horoscope

March 21 - April 19

You will see a spider and you will recognize a fellow artist, and abstract designer, pattern-maker who creates elaborate, tenuous pieces whose sole function is in fact a practical one, nutrition. For this spider, like many others, spins its web to catch its meal; its meal is that which in turn keeps the spider from a morte fame.

Like many other Aries you do not kill spiders and have a very special appreciation for this insect that mainly feeds on other insects. You sit yourself seated and follow as the spider seemingly descends, suspended in air. You listen as the spider begins to sing you a song, its one you as an Aries have always known.

Spiders and What they Spin

2009-12-02T22:02:00.000-08:00

I was watching Charlotte's Web with my niece last night. Or so the evening began, because as usually is the case, halfway through the film my two year old niece wanders off and I am left fully immersed, entangled as one rightfully should in Charlotte's Web.

I remember the story from third grade, Ms. Smith read it to us, or we read it with her. After the book we watched the movie. I don't think I've set eyes on either the book or the movie since. In the way that first impressions from childhood carry over into adulthood, sometimes even covertly, I remember a few things about the story. Charlotte, Wilbur, the messages on the web, Charlotte's death, and Wilbur's prize; vaguely are these plot points available to me yet I still found myself surprised by my reintroduction to a childhood story that I'd be lying if I said I cared at all about.

Reviewing Charlotte's Web I realized on some level, especially to an adult viewer, this story is about mortality. I also realized how much I hate Wilbur who has so hard a time dealing with that mortality. Not only does he fear dying but he is also selfish and naive, but then again so are children. The fear of dying, of course is okay, since he's a pig who is raised to be killed; I kind of get that but Wilbur also has a problem with Charlotte's death and the death of even the insects that are caught on Charlotte's web, which Charlotte herself gains nourishment from.

Charlotte is amazing, Debbie Reynolds supplies her voice. The lonely spider who spins a web and is at the same time, friend and philosopher to Wilbur. On the best song in the movie, titled Mother Earth and Father Time, she states,

How very special are we

For just a moment to be

Part of life's eternal rhyme

How very special are we

To have on our family tree

Mother Earth and Father Time

That about sums it up for me. How infinitely random that we fit into such an everlasting indefinition, definitely. To be a part of the universe on such microcosmic terms and yet contribute so absolutely to its macrocosmic orchestration is as clear as any reason why life is worth living. Camus talks of absurdism and the futility of life and why its still an experience worth experiencing even if its end result is nothing. Camus also talks of happiness as a side effect of dueling it out with futility,

What matters to me is a certain quality of happiness. I can only find it in a certain struggle with its opposite--a stubborn and violent struggle...

And about the consciousness of happiness while admitting the absurd:

Just as there is a moment when the artist must stop, when the sculpture must be left as it is, the painting untouched--just as a determination not to know serves the maker more than all the resources of clairvoyance--so there must be a minimum of ignorance in order to perfect a life in happiness. Those who lack such a thing must set about acquiring it; unintelligence must be earned.

Spiders know better than we do. The best creation is life and even though it ends it still happens. While it happens is all that matters.

Bunny Lake is _______

2009-12-02T20:47:00.000-08:00

Bunny Lake is Missing - (1965) Directed by Otto Preminger

Starring Laurence Olivier, Carol Lynley, Keir Dullea

Otto Preminger is the master of opening titles. Anatomy of a Murder, The Man with the Golden Arm, and now Bunny Lake is Missing; the opening credits to these films are executed so stylishly, Preminger's choices for soundtracks and design are really something else, they weren't ahead of their time (I won't settle for that cliche) No, Otto won't be simply judged as anachronism, he just made others notice how behind the times they were.

As good as the opening credits are, they are just that, the opening credits; and therefore only the beginning of this great film. Black and white never looked so good, unsteady cameras and long shots that kept you with unease while you attempt to resolve for yourself what's happening to the main character, Ann Lake, played by Carol Lynley. Preminger keeps giving you information, but its never enough to piece it together before the film does it for you, this is a good thing. I'd definitely plan on owning and viewing this film many more times.

There's something to be said about films in the 60s and the cameras that were available at that time, as well as cinemascope and color. Especially color, by the time this film was released, color films were finally at a place where it truly worked, this happened sometime in the 50s and it only improved. The manner in which this affected black and white films is both good and bad. On one hand, the cameras and cinemascope format made for such a beautiful black and white image on screen, in the hands of a good director and cinematographer (in thos case Denys Coop), this was such a treasure to the viewer. Orson Welles, I think once said, that a beautiful could not be made in color. I partially agree, I believe they could definitely be made now or even as early as the late 70s but in the 50s and 60s, this was the height of the power of black and white films. Proof of this, for me, is found in the fact that if you shoot a black and white film today it would still look as if it were filmed in the 50s or 60s. I could be wrong...

I'm no director or film buff.

I'm just a jerk with two eyes and an ego.

She Makes Me Touch the Machine

2009-12-02T20:42:00.001-08:00

The Lady from Shanghai - (1948) Directed by Orson Welles

Starring Rita Hayworth and Orson Welles

Not too crazy about the story, even though it does get better as the plot thickens. Welles still manages an interesting film through his direction.

The Death Dance

2009-12-01T20:35:00.000-08:00

Welcome my dear to the last 31 days of the year. The first ten years of the 21st century are now coming to a close. Celebrate my dear, because we'll never see the close of the first decade of another century, or rarer still, another millennium again.

A Happy Death

2009-12-01T16:48:00.000-08:00

I'm Going In

by Lhasa De Sela

from the album Lhasa,

released Apr. 2009

When my lifetime had just ended

and my death had just begun

I told you I'd never leave you

but I knew this day would come

Give me blood for my blood wedding

I am ready to be born

I feel new as if this body

were the first I'd ever worn

I need straw for the straw fire

I need hard earth for the plow

Don't ask me to reconsider

I am ready to go now

I'm going in, I'm going in

This is how it starts

I can see in so far

but afterwards we always forget

who we are

I'm going in, I'm going in

I can stand the pain

and the blinding heat

'cause I won't remember you

the next time we meet

You'll be making the arrangements

you'll be trying to set me free

Not a moment for the meeting

I'll be busy as a bee

You'll be talking to me

but I just won't understand

I'll be falling by the wayside

you'll be holding out your hand

Don't you tempt me with perfection

I have other things to do

I didn't burrow this far in

just to come right back to you

I'm going in, I'm going in

I have never been so ugly

I have never been so slow

These prison walls get closer now

the further in I go

I'm going in, I'm going in

I like to see you from a distance

and just barely believe

and think that

even lost and blind

I still invented love

I'm going in, I'm going in

I'm going in

There Will Be Love

2009-11-30T20:28:00.000-08:00

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

Day by day, you are that thought which has been spanning throughout my mind. Yes, darling to me you are like an imperialist, who's power and ambition recognizes not any limits or boundaries. The thought of you in my mind, steals land, kills or cheats landlords, marries memories and all their fortunes; yes dear, the thought of you in my mind is doing quite well for itself.

Today -

I pass you by and pretend to not notice you, betraying my every instinct to stand directly before you and into your eyes, stare until sight or its focus, expires from me. In your department with your girls, your voice heard here then there, how it travels and so faithfully is it, how I follow. Its perfume to the ears, and then when coursed with a visual accompaniment, it becomes flavor to the eyes--an aromatic, gourmet cuisine. As fine as you are yet you starve me, or more so to the point, I starve myself from you. I chase myself away, the perfume I treat as a stench and the flavor, like an acrid taste, which I then dry heave with perfect disgust.

Am I like the beggar who pretends the banquet is nothing more than a culinary compilation of vile slop, simply because he isn't invited to any access of it?

O love of mine-not-yet-mine, if only that you could see through the facade; perhaps I reveal as much, when distanced from my countenance. Know that my disgust is the darkness from which I invite light to evolve. I want to hate you, despise and detest you so that I may savor every subtle dissolution that transforms, slowly, that enmity into love. Experiencing every atom of love that gradually collects until a planet results, and hatred becomes an atmosphere that shields that love and all of Life within it.

To you, all this love and further, all its future.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

A Handbag!

2009-11-29T21:51:00.000-08:00

The Importance of Being Earnest - (1952) Directed by Anthony Asquith

Starring Michael Redgrave, Michael Denison, Edith Evans

Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter - a girl brought up with the utmost care - to marry into a cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr. Worthing!

This movie is so good. Hilarious! Edith Evans can say any line as Lady Bracknell and I'm guaranteed to be in stitches.

USSR: Thats Short for Russia

2009-11-29T20:55:00.000-08:00

One, Two, Three - (1961) Directed by Billy Wilder

Starring James Cagney, Horst Buchholz, Pamela Tiffin

Billy Wilder delivers once again, this time in a comedy starring James Cagney as Coca-Cola's main man in West Berlin. Constantly tugging at Cold War sensitivities yet mindful enough to not make it the center focus of the film, One, Two, Three is a good comedy brought to the screen by a master director.

The pace of the film is fast and matched admirably by James Cagney in the role of C.R. MacNamara, the fast talking, multi-tasking, schemer who represents not only Coca-Cola but Capitalist US of A. MacNamara manipulates, cheats, and lies throughout most of the film but is still as charismatic as ever.

Horst Buchholz was animated and indignantly exasperated every chance he could get, he's so good at that and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the performance. As Otto Piffl, the idealist youth who's caught between communist and capitalist and is coming to terms with what both competing social ideologies' practical definitions are, Horst is primal, energetic, and distrusting; much representing of the world that either of the mentioned ideologies seek to conquer. The gags do not unfold as they would in a slap stick comedy but the script is full of jabs and quick punches to both capitalism and communism.

Lilo Pulver as Cagney's secretary-sometimes-mistress seals the deal for me. Her table striptease to Aram Khachaturian's Sabre Dance has just made it to my list of best uses for that musical piece in a film.

When Three Beans are Worth Three Cows

2009-11-29T19:18:00.000-08:00

Villain man never ran with crills in his hand

and won't stop rocking 'til he clocked in a gazzillion grand

Such goes the best hip-hop song of the year; such goes what happens when two of my favorite artists from seemingly different genres collaborate. When I first heard Gazzillion Ear by Doom as remixed by Thom Yorke of Radiohead, it was the first time in a long stretch that I was genuinely jealous of another artist. What Yorke produced for Villain was new and dark, it seduced and left room for seduction. That is, it held its own but only when you hear Doom's baritone drunk flow over it do you realize that the beat was indeed missing something. That something was the mind of "a real weirdo with a bugged rare flow and the way his hair grow--ugly as a scarecrow," as Doom himself offers as a self-portrait.

The Man in the Iron Mask

The way Doom rhymes should not be possible. There is some law being defied in this performance. His words just dribble out and yet it isn't drivel, if he has a speech impediment it doesn't impair his articulation, which it should by definition. Even when on a song like Gazzillion Ear remix, where Doom is delivering a moderately fast paced flow, its through such an ironic voice that he, pardon the cliche, makes it sound so easy. Its as if he's possessed, or as if its the most natural and possibly most inconvenient thing in the world to rhyme. He sounds sinister, yes but he also, does he not, sound bored and unimpressed. Doom's flow practically looks you right in your astonished eyes and asks, "is this suppose to be difficult?"

Don't look now, keep walking

traded three beans for this cow, cheap talking

The Kid with Treefingers

Thom Yorke creates for Doom, a dark, eerie ghost of a beat. The high hats are angry, like the teeth on a typewriter biting letters onto aluminum foil; they were the first thing I noticed in the song right before Doom starts spitting. A good portion into Doom's marathon of self-assured verbiage, Thom adds hummed harmonies that float and billow out, fog-like, covering the track in an ambivalent mist.

Alone, that is, sans Doom's vocals, Gazzillion Ear remix could have easily been mistaken for a b-side to Yorke's Eraser compositions. Snuggled warmly up against A Rat's Nest and Jetstream; button drums that minimally pop, wailing phantasms, and dark tones, each collectively inspiring an apprehension or paranoia.

One man's waste is another man's soap

Son's fan based on a brother man's dope

Essentially just a song about success and not having to compromise as a condition to notoriety. But Doom makes use of of a wide variety of references from wrestler, Jake the Snake to the recent, Hadron Particle Collider, in a four verse remix that has no hook or chorus and yet maintains within it, a sense of urgency throughout Doom's approximate 96 bars; and Yorke marvelously keeps the beat simple with subtle changes and shifts that conjure some sort of LSD journey while the Villain layers his lines like tetris blocks. Mind you, he's not impressed.

To Not Know so We May Know

2009-11-27T23:36:00.000-08:00

On the Occasion Where We May Exchange True Words

For the way you smile and the way your voice sounds in my mind, I'll hope for the day when we no longer see one another so that by chance, one day we'll have a casual reintroduction. On a day when we have no occasion to think about one another; on a setting foreign to the association of either you to me or I to you. Taking a second to even recognize our faces, and then scurrying into the archives of our memories for each other's names that do not arrive immediately to the grasp of our tongues.

You'll smile and your dark, wide eyes will hold me in place for a second. We'll talk when we remember who we are; we'll talk as if we were more than just a brevity of familiarity, as if we were friends. You'll tell me what's new in your life, even though its all new to me, since I never knew anything personal about you. Likewise, you'll listen and update my profile as I anchor the news. We'll see one another out of context and as a result, for the first time. Its as if it was only through costumes at a ball that we experienced one another, until finally an opportunity has randomly placed us side by side without our masks; and the surprise of what lies beneath somewhat interests us both.

Fear, Shame, Embarrassment, and How They Cut

2009-11-25T19:40:00.000-08:00

I once knew this girl who stole a blade from me. It wasn't exactly stolen, more like it was taken away without a presented incentive for me to attempt a rescue. She was older than I, taller and stronger, probably not smarter but that didn't help me much.

It was a summer in the late 80s or early 90s and I was in the Dominican Republic. Los Alcarrizos, thats where my aunt-godmother lives; thats where I ran across a field behind the houses with the other kids and embarrassingly stepped into a pool of mud, just as the kids imagined a New Yorker would. It was right where my brother and I competed for smiles from Josie; where my cousin Yuri constantly tried to kiss me, but failed. So many of my visits to the Dominican Republic are forever committed to Los Alcarrizos, low concrete layers of houses, dirt roads and steep hills, random fields, avocado trees, and the smell of wet tangerines after a fresh rain. It was also here, in Los Alcarrizos, that after one of those fresh summer rains, a shaving blade that I had been entertaining since the morning was removed and taken hostage.

I don't remember her name but she was the neighbor's daughter. She was the older sister of this annoying kid, who was around my age, who I had just pushed off my aunt's property, off a platform, down to his front dirt (there was no lawn). I pushed her brother a few days prior to her stealing my blade. I only pushed her brother because he kept asking for it, literally.

"If you're such a bad ass from New York then prove it...Push me off this ledge. Go 'head, push me."

Translated from spanish of course. After a long, monotone looping of his request, I became bored or irritated and I complied with his order, he thanked me by crying and maybe hurting his arm. When he called his mother I made a break for it. Not that anyone would believe his story, even if it were true; I was considered an angel.

His older sister, however, she saw right through me. She was about thirteen or fourteen and politely asked to see my blade as I stood outside my aunt-godmother's house. She let me have it in the open, very straightforward did she smile and tell me what she thought of me, that she knew I pushed her little brother. I was barely paying attention, I just wanted my blade back and made a face to reply to the smell that followed her like a disciple. After she wrapped up her veritable accusations, I asked for the return of my blade. She must have misunderstood, because instead of placing the blade back on my palm which I held extended, she did something quite contrary. One would wonder if my spanish was indeed that awful, that cock-eyed as to have someone confuse, "give me back my blade," for "shove my blade down your pants."

I stood before this older, taller, stronger girl and pouted my entire face with annoyance. "Is she serious?" I must've said with my eyes. All the while that disciple of hers warmed like an aura around her, like an atmosphere. I almost had to hold my breath but my anger usually demands air through flared nostrils. I asked her once again to return my blade, release the hostage, let's walk away from this peacefully. She replied with an invitation, said that if I wanted the blade so bad I'd have to reach in and pull it back out.

Now, don't get me wrong, she was dirty. She looked like a dark, wet alley cat. Nothing like Josie or her older sister, who wore long skirts and smiled like a piece of something sweet. There was nothing sweet about this kidnapper, this terrorist pervert and that sour smell which perfumed her like a bad frame. Nothing sweet about her smile or her husky voice, yet when it came down to whether or not I would reach into her crotch for my blade, none of this made an impression on my decision. I blushed at the idea and in the end, I didn't get my blade back but not due to disgust, rather because of fear.

Soon after, I left with my family to another town to visit some other relatives, my cousin, Yuri probably came with us. I never saw that girl again, neither on that trip or any future return. She ran off with something I was scared to do, something sharp and intimately fresh. As a result, there is a possession of mine wandering along the past, snuggled soundly in the crotch of a teenage alley cat; and when I see an older dominican woman, who is questionable in character, I think only of my blade and its rightful, manual owner.

My, How We Are Thirsty

2009-11-24T21:37:00.000-08:00

Days of Lemons and Daffodils

Any night I find lemonade in the fridge, I can't figure out how not to revert into a crackhead. After one sip, all I can think of is another. Its too good to stop. Sleep is a passive aggressor and never convincing enough to deter me from the self-appointed mission, in such cases:

drink all the lemonade in the fridge.

Sure, tomorrow will proceed this night and my love for lemonade will not wane; and sure I could do, tomorrow, with some of the euphoria that sizzles in my brain when I drink the naturally squeezed sour-made-sweet drink; but why concern myself with tomorrow when the night and the lemonade are both here, presently.

Drink all the lemonade in the fridge.

It becomes a command, one which I take seriously. It becomes a law and I, its most faithful of officers. A nebulously, grayish-yellow liquid, as if a cloud of sun became a beverage that pours onto a cup like a god into a miracle; a holy communion becomes the quenching of a thirst. Only its not the thirst of a dry tongue or throat, not the deprivation or dehydration that can drain a body, like a fish out of water, and kill it. This thirst is not much like that, if at all. This is the thirst of addiction, of chemicals in the brain recognizing a familiar chemistry and associating with it, the most welcomed of lemonade memories. The sour-made-sweet yesterdays. Its sweetness and all its delights, excessively craved, sought, and possessed only for a few seconds before it fades as you sigh out a momentary satisfaction. But before you know it, the satisfaction is gone, for you can't have your lemonade and drink it too.

Still this doesn't stop me from trying, sometimes all night. Each time hoping some physical anomaly will take pity on me and allow me both, my possession and my drink.

Postman and the Poster Girl

2009-11-23T11:42:00.000-08:00

The Postman Always Rings Twice - (1946) Directed by Tay Garnett

Starring Lana Turner, John Garfield, Cecil Kellaway, Hume Cronyn

Vicki - (1953) Directed by Harry Horner

Starring Jeanne Crain, Jean Peters, Elliot Reid,

Richard Boone

I'll confess, I wasn't satisfied with either film. Of the two, I'd prefer The Postman Always Rings Twice for a second viewing; a second ring, if you will. Maybe the second time around will bring to light something to cling to, something to found a liking for, besides Lana Turner who was one of the only reasons keeping me from stopping the film and moving on with life. Similarly, Richard Boone as Detective Lt. Ed Cornell was the only reason I remained for Vicki.

Visually, neither film made any particular statements that weren't previously, already voiced by Double Indemnity nor did either script share the passionate intensity of Gilda. Murder-Love-Hate, this seems to be the trinity of both The Postman Always Rings Twice and Vicki, yet the substance that should fill each facet of that triangle pours out rather shallow, insatiably. I felt there wasn't enough brought to the table and each film fell short of the meal it could have been. With the already established exception of Richard Boone and Lana Turner, most of the acting was just good but no better. Although it was cool to see a young Aaron Spelling in Vicki.

Yesterday's Playlist

2009-11-20T22:36:00.000-08:00

How to Marry a Millionaire - (1953) Directed by Jean Negulesco

Starring Lauren Bacall, Marilyn Monroe, Betty Grable

Sunday in New York - (1963) Directed by Peter Tewksbury

Starring Rod Taylor, Jane Fonda, Cliff Robertson

Prince of Players - (1955) Directed by Philip Dunne

Starring Richard Burton, Maggie McNamara, John Derek

Indulgence and Nameless Cats

2009-11-19T15:48:00.000-08:00

Breakfast at Tiffany's - (1961) Directed by Blake Edwards

Starring Audrey Hepburn, George Peppard

I'm sure as I write, there are a dozen people in New York discovering Breakfast at Tiffany's, purchasing the film, renting a netflix, purchasing the novel, hearing about the story from others; then there are those who've done all of this already and are just watching their own copy of the film, or rereading Truman Capote's novel. I knew about the film before I knew who the name Audrey Hepburn belonged to. Such being the popularity adorned by Holly Golightly, I will spare any talk about Breakfast at Tiffany's only mentioning that the film did not surprise me in being good but did however, surprise me in that, I was expecting a high end fashion film about some spoiled upper class socialite who learns a lesson somewhere between thousand-dollar-wardrobe changes and pretty jewelry montages. I couldn't be any more wrong. The contents of the film are full of substance, this wasn't simply, How to Marry a Millionaire. And Holly Golightly, I've seen before...in many bars and the opening receptions of many art galleries. Her apartment is familiar and I understand everything about her. I sympathize but its also self-sympathy, so its more along the lines of empathic reflection; placing yourself in someone else's shoes because you recognize them as your shoes as well. I hope that doesn't inspire a cross-dressed conclusion. I've read In Cold Blood by Capote and have been curious to read some of his fiction, specifically anything before In Cold Blood.

After Breakfast at Tiffany's TCM played Days of Wine and Roses. I couldn't stop watching. I'm not a fan of horror films but thats exactly what films about alcoholism tend to be for me.

Days of Wine and Roses - (1962) Directed by Blake Edwards

Starring Jack Lemmon, Lee Remick

I myself do not drink and I don't hold it against anyone who does nor do I morally judge them for it. However, as a teen I used to be straight-edge and gave friends a hard time whenever I saw one of them leaning a Friday night drink against their lips. I gave this righteous inquisition up a long time ago; besides noticing it made me an asshole, I soon also realized I didn't care whether they drank or not, so long as I remained sober.

Therein lies my true addiction, remaining sober. I want to be conscious and aware at all times, to feel, taste, experience through the dryness of sobriety; untampered or altered by any outside influence. Being drunk reminds me of a kind of sleep, and I hate sleep, I participate in very little hours of slumber, just enough in fact, to not be deprived of it. Sobriety is also my sort of rebellion, my anti-soma with which I remain awkwardly awake and self-conscious, over analyzing and tensely uncomfortable. A stubborn refusal to obscure the world from its intensity, for better or worse, to see it as it is at all times. Comfort, for me, has come to mean: safe; unworried and unaware of any danger or unexpected circumstance. I cling to my sobriety ironically, for the comfort of control. To be drunk is to let go, hands off the steering wheel, to free oneself of control. I find this an impossibility for myself. I view my life within a universe that is random and my life just as random and beyond my control except for daydreams. But my body...that, I can hold. My body, this I can control, I can watch and be master of its every step like a director through a camera lens. This control is the only control I have in my possession and to forfeit such a power seems grotesque to me.

Again, I don't spend my time worrying about if anyone else drinks, lightly or heavily. Your life is your life and live it you shall, as you see fit to. There is nothing too awful about alcohol consumption other than it being an obsession and as of all obsessions, it can take over your life...warping your judgement, reasoning, and performance. This however, is true of all obsessions; whether they are considered vice or not. I myself, have my obsessions which I won't give up. Who am I to say this obsession is right but this one wrong? This one casual and this one severe?

All the same, I am embarrassed by drunk people, maybe even a bit ashamed. I try not to be the latter of the two but it happens. Even if they are strangers, even if its from a distance, an inebriated person makes me blush a little inside. That lack of reserve, denial of inhibition is truthful and should be applauded but its not delivered from such a purpose as a confession. These revelations of the individual who's had too much to drink aren't offered by a conscious decision to do so. I agree to any theory that considers it a subconscious working, where the drink is desired as a vehicle to drive the truth upwards and out, like an exorcised ghost. But this only further reminds me of the inability of a sober confession, from both the inebriated and the sober. It haunts for me, an image of a person with 20/20 vision who does not like what he sees so he wears glasses that not only blunts his vision but also damages his eyesight in the long run. This self-damage is hard on me to witness, it also feels like voyeurism; as if I'm peering into an intimacy offered, one which the individual who is offering is not fully aware of this proposed invitation.

This is why as I watched Blake Edwards' Days of Wine and Roses, I might as well have been watching one of the Saw films.

You sit there and all this self-abuse unravels before you through these characters who can't help themselves. The film is well paced and handled very respectfully. Without coming across as preachy or morally overbearing, Edwards builds up a fluent antagonist of alcoholism without forgetting the humanity of both Jack Lemmon's Joe Clay and Lee Remick's Kirsten Arnesen Clay; married, parents, and both alcoholics. With glasses in their hands, you feel as if they're walking down some dark corridor, where its obvious a killer is going to jump out and slit their throats. You want to help them not condemn them. Both Jack Lemmon and Lee Remick give amazing performances, the fall of Lee Remick's character was grippingly sad and a perfect match for the ingression of Jack Lemmon's character from alcoholic to admitted alcoholic. Watching both, and through powerful performances and direction, you invest in a woman who doesn't know how deep she's drowned and a man who does know the fathom of his situation but any pause can swallow him back down as he swims upwards to dry out.

Here's the Black, Wicked Witch. Ha! Ha! Ha!

2009-11-16T21:07:00.000-08:00

Just finally finished The Tin Drum. That is to say I just finished a good novel. That is to say I just finished a good novel I've been reading most of 2009.

Its not even a difficult novel to read, its just the first 500+ page book I've undertaken in a while...In fact, I haven't been reading much, the last two years have been slow, literarily speaking. Now, don't go thinking that there was a time, a golden age when I galloped about reading 500+ page books regularly. No, friends it is only to a very small list of 500+ page books (all three, novels) that I add the conquest of The Tin Drum.

The story is by Oskar Matzerath and the alternate title, If Jesus Had Had a Hump, They Would Never Have Nailed Him to a Cross.

If anyone is curious as to what the novel is about I will leave them with the following. Here, I should note that even if you are not curious, you are still left with the following. The "following" is a summary by the author himself, or an excerpt from the novel, where the novel sums itself up. So its The Tin Drum by The Tin Drum. If you are concerned and further made cautious of reading "The Following" because The Tin Drum was a novel you were planning on reading anyway; or you trust my literary tastes and the above is enough to sell you on the recommendation I'll never make on this post, to read The Tin Drum; if in anyway you are worried I am about to divulge spoilers, rest most assured champ, I am not. The Tin Drum is not a murder/crime mystery or a suspense thriller. It is true that the plot is strong but its only an effective plot when every detail is disclosed. A summary will not do this novel any harm, or justice.

Oskar Matzerath

(about Oskar Matzerath and The Tin Drum)

"...born under light bulbs, deliberately stopped growing at age three, given drum, sang glass to pieces, smelled vanilla, coughed in churches, observed ants, decided to grow, buried drum, emigrated to the west, lost the East, learned stonecutter's trade, worked as model, started drumming again, visited concrete, made money, kept finger, gave finger away, fled laughing, rode up escalator, arrested, convicted, sent to mental hospital, soon to be acquitted, celebrating this my thirtieth birthday and still afraid of the Black Witch."

Frozen Cast Away

2009-11-13T12:00:00.000-08:00

What it Feels Like to be in Overdraft

So I'm on an island. I'm stranded there. I like the peace but it isn't a nice tropical island, abundant in food and resources; its more of a suspended iceberg, an island with a heavy layering of frosting. Everything that could truly be of use to me is buried under heavy, deep sheets of ice. I try to leave, I try to get out of there; even successfully built a raft after months of gathering parts from what I can. Its an awful looking raft but its all thats available.

Now, I've been trying to escape...but the waves. The waves push me back and I'm freezing. Its too cold and the waves crash and the further out I get, the larger and stronger they react. I, under their mercy, as they slam down on me like a hand to a mosquito. And its so cold. I've been trying week after week but to no avail, the waves are always there, proudly roaring. Yet, they pull back into the sea, as if calling me out to that calm escape I see miles away. Perhaps, they're taunting me.

I can't find a way out unless I travel under the waves. But how does one hold such a breath, or ignore such a cold? Surely, there are not enough resources available to transform my raft into a submarine. But it might be my only hope to try.

Confessions of a Crap Artist: New Directions

2009-11-11T14:23:00.000-08:00

New Country for Young Men

"At this hour of night, his life seemed so remote to him, he was so solitary and indifferent to everything and to himself as well...he had at last attained what he was seeking, that the peace which filled him now was born of that patient self-abandonment he had pursued and achieved with the help of this warm world so willing to deny him without anger."

In the wake of a new job with very little hours and lesser pay than my previous; at the news that my parents are moving off to DR next year and my sister and myself left to fend for ourselves; in view that most of my childhood friends are married or parents, if not simply career holding individuals, I should think myself worried about the current state of my life. But I'm not. I mean, I'm somewhat concerned but overall, it doesn't really intimidate me.

The news is all good and I'm flying higher, I'm back on my own. Don't worry about me I got no more baggage...threw all my old things away. I got your letter and thanks for the offer, I really don't need a thing...open the door in front of me.

I'd rather die than get more hours at my current job (I hate that place), and so long as I withhold from spend drifting, I'll be alright. My parents, well they deserve DR as much as I want to move the hell out! I'm glad they're leaving, I'm tired of home cook meals, domestic household interaction, and ultimately, I'm tired of seeing my family everyday. As far as friends that are married, parents, or just successful, thats all good but all I want to do is make music, art, and write...if wifing a dime, sprouting a jr., or becoming a professional will allow me unlimited time and space to work on the bright little activities that keep the darkness from swallowing me into the shape of an average american adult, then by all means count me in!

I spoke with my homegirl recently, we texted back and forth about how strange the sensation was that, even though ones life is out of certainty, even though the mind may be stressed and uncomfortable, the body can remain steady. I feel energetic and fit, my body feels responsive and alive. Movement has always been associated with life for me; animation even contains within it, the word "anima" which means "life" and "soul." The Body is not less than the Mind nor visa versa, the Mind any lesser than the Body. The collaboration of the two is life. These events that have recently introduced themselves to me as Crisis have brought forth the internal realization that the needs of my body are just as important as those of my mind. And since, of the two, my body feels more primitive and therefore all the more urgent, then those needs of the mind such as psychological security and social standardization are deemed subordinate at the moment, outweighed by the almighty id. To my advantage, this keeps me from feeling stressed out and depressed.

The sun is now shining on me; meet me as soon as you can, bring me the money you're holding for me...taking my head out of sand.

November Heart Beats for Lhasa De Sela

2009-11-09T00:14:00.000-08:00

I Didn't Call and You Didn't See

Me for a While

by AE Paulino

Lhasa Lhasa O dear,

Dearest Lhasa, from where, where

If not only from the lobby of your heart

Does that voice carry four chambers

On its back and up through the slight

Aperture of throat, does it compress

All that blood into song, into vibrations of air?

Lhasa Lhasa O dear,

Dearest Lhasa, from where there,

If only there does that pain swell and clenched

Like eyes, does a tear damp those fists?

Lhasa, for it is November

Dearly November and your airs make love,

Sheets of fallen temperatures that wrap the streets--

O dear, you make again, the heart with which I move

Its not enough, no longer to know--

Its not honest, no longer never less, to hold most still,

And from a tongue like a stage, truth will act

When the play, O dear, bloats with necessity

Lhasa Lhasa O dear,

Dearly Dearest, when should I,

If ever I should with this There There Heart,

That trickles and drafts, that needs a pin,

A button and perhaps an Icy Late Fall's Palm;

When should I sing from that palm,

The necessity that could make a Lhasa song

out of the absence thereafter?

Because,

Its not enough, no longer to think--

Its misfortune, no longer the more, to press most still,

and from a tongue like a hot tin roof, truth will jump

When the building, story by story, bloats with desperation

We're Gonna Be Fine

2009-11-08T22:46:00.000-08:00

A Serious Man - (2009) Directed by the Coens Brothers

Starring Michael Stuhbarg, Richard Kind, Fred Melamed

Sari Lennick, Aaron Wolff

Here is the IMDb plot summary for A Serious Man:

"A black comedy set in 1967 and centered on Larry Gopnik, a Midwestern professor who watches his life unravel when his wife prepares to leave him because his inept brother won't move out of the house."

I find it very strange to read the plot description to any Coen Brothers film. At the same time that they are correct and further, an accurate and fair factual summary of the plot, these details also make you aware how special the film actually was. What I mean is, by reminding you of the bare facts, you realize in tenfold how much more was provided for you in a film whose plot is accurately described as much less.

Here is the IMDb plot for No Country for Old Men:

"Violence and mayhem ensue after a hunter stumbles upon some dead bodies, a stash of heroin and more than $2 million in cash near the Rio Grande."

Again, this is so on the money! That is exactly what happens in the film but at the same time, to see it written or hear it said makes you notice that that same plot could easily have been executed differently, thus killing the reasons why that film is so good.

A Serious Man did splendors for my inner Riddler, constantly obsessed with analysis and megamorphing mysteries from just about any source, particularly unfortunate events. Larry Gopnik, played by Michael Stuhberg, is a man who is faced with a marathon of stressful incidents, he is a mathematical man; reason must skeleton every action and event. His world soon becomes a Schrodinger's Cat that is both dead and alive and moreover, he isn't allowed to peek inside the box to set his uncertainty to rest.

The film presents me with a story that is tightly wound and yet loosened, the more weight I give the plot the more it pulls me down. However, its all a matter of perspective, (hahaha) its a parking lot! A foreign parking lot that looks overwhelming at first but then becomes as simple as the locals perceive it to be, as it becomes part of your daily life.

Larry Gopnik's counterpart in the film his in fact, his teenage son, Danny. The pot smoking, Jefferson Airplane-head who is approaching his Bar Mitzvah, who owes twenty dollars to school tough, Mike Fagle, and who has parents that may be divorcing. Danny is far more easy going than his dad. His teenage reactions to Crisis are marked by tactics that include outrunning Fagle after every school day to avoid an ass beating, getting stoned right before his Bar Mitzvah to cool his nerves; overall, its a response to Crisis rather than an analysis of, the latter seeming to be Danny's father's forte.

I feel this was the Coens flexing their writing muscle, the film was visually good but it was all about the idea of the film, the questions and the answers that never came.